


the ground is not so stable here

by eyemoji



Series: the ground is not so stable here [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, kind of, now providing content warnings per chapter!, someone was going to do it, sorry ben and tim, stella firma au, watch me take the small amount of existing stellar firma canon and do whatever the hell i want
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2019-10-31 17:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 33,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17853779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemoji/pseuds/eyemoji
Summary: Stellar Firma LTD is proud to present newly appointed Head Planetary Architect Jonathan Sims with his clone assistant Martin-7.Martin-7 is not so sure how he ought to feel about this, or why Jon seems to not want him around in the first place.





	1. Chapter 1

Martin-7 doesn’t remember what being born was like, even if he did only just finish the process.

He has the feeling it had something to do with  _ warmth, _ though that might just be the freezing cold temperatures of the vacuum tube he’s currently sealed inside getting to him. 

 

He hopes whoever’s in charge won’t forget about him for too long.

 

_ Maybe, this is still part of being born, _ he thinks,  _ and we’re not quite there yet, so chin up. _

 

Still. He doesn’t think he likes  _ cold _ much.

 

When a small panel at the base of the tube slides back to allow through a buzzing metallic prong, then, he thinks nothing of reaching for it. After all, vibration = heat, right? At least, that’s what the basic science package he’s been pre-installed with is telling him, and that’s got to mean something. He opens and closes his hand a couple of times, to get used to the feeling of it, before he braces himself against the back of the tube, bends his knees, and slides down until he can make contact with the prong, which, he notes as it grows closer in his vision, now carries a single blue spark jumping back and forth between each of the prongs.

 

Stellar Firma really ought to have installed the advanced science package, he thinks, later, after the pain’s worn off and he’s once again able to breathe.

 

In the moment however, the agony that instantly flares up through his arm is excruciating, and all thoughts of warmth are shoved aside as the electricity runs up his arm and wraps around his heart, where it  _ yanks _ . He’s dimly aware that he’s screaming, loudly, but ninety-four point five-six-eight percent of his brain is preoccupied trying to localize the source of  _ whatever the hell is happening to him _ . Of the remaining five point four-three-two percent, around a quarter of his attention is focused on trying to make out the words on the loudspeaker; he can’t manage more than the occasional phrase:

 

“WELCOME TO ST-”

 

“-ON FIRM GROU-”

“-WILL BE ASSISTING-”

 

“-VERY BUSY-” (this from a new voice, a vaguely  _ nice _ voice, Martin would conclude, if he had the capacity-)

 

“ET ALONG WONDE-”

 

“-RATULATIO-”

 

-and running alongside it all, the ever-present stream of the packaging manager (and he’s realized that’s what it is, as the pleasantly neutral voice begins to list off, rapid-fire-)

 

<INITIALIZING PERSONALITY MATRIX>

 

<REMOVING CLASSICAL BALLROOM DANCE PACKAGE>

 

<REMOVING HIGHER EDUCATION PACKAGE>

 

<INSTALLING COOPERATIVITY PACK-

 

<ERROR>

 

<ERROR>

 

<ERROR>

 

<DISCONNECTING FROM CLIENT>

 

-and Martin isn’t exactly sure what’s happening but all at once the lights and sounds and flashes exploding behind his eyes drain away as if they’d never existed at all. The vacuum tube opens and unceremoniously deposits him out onto the floor.

 

He stays curled on the ground, shivering.

 

* * *

He wakes to the sound of depressurizing doors and an impatient drumming, the latter of which, he realizes as he picks himself up off of the floor into a seated position with a groan, is coming from the long, slim fingers tapping against the edge of one of the large screens Martin is  _ sure _ weren’t there last night. He tracks the motion up an arm, across a slightly tensed shoulder, and up to a  _ very _ irritated face. 

 

This, finally, is enough to shake Martin out of his still half-dazed state and he snaps to attention, spine straightening.

“You’re the new one, then.”

 

It takes Martin a second to realize the face is talking to  _ him _ .

 

“Oh- uh, yes? I think so?”

 

“What does that make you, then, Martin-6? 7?”

 

“Seven,” Martin affirms, a new emotion prickling at his edges at the sound of his- predecessor’s name. He wants to ask-- if this person knew Martin-6, then they might be able to explain it--  but fights the impulse-- from their expression, he’s not sure whatever this person calls themselves would appreciate a barrage of questions about what he’s feeling.

 

Said person doesn’t react beyond a short noise indicating they’ve heard him, at least, and the room is uncomfortably quiet for a few moments. Finally, Martin can’t stand the silence any longer:

 

“And, um, you are…?”

 

“Jonathan Sims,” comes the answer, voice still clearly annoyed, and Martin can’t help but note two things somewhere in the back of his mind: One, that Jonathan acts as if whatever issue is irking him seems to be somehow  _ Martin’s _ fault-- entirely unlikely as it is, Martin knows, considering as he’s been alive all of a few hours-- and two, that Jonathan’s voice is  _ very _ nice when it curls and settles against the base of his neck.

 

“Well, hello, Jonathan--” Jonathan winces, and it only adds to the slowly growing trepidation making a home for itself in Martin’s gut-- “As I’ve said, I’m Martin-7, and I’ve been sent to help Architect- well, uh, you, I guess, with-- planet reconstruction? At least-- that’s what I think the video said? I couldn’t really tell; I was a bit busy getting, well, constructed, too-- I mean, you could call it that, couldn’t you?--”

 

“Martin.”

 

“All that package installation-- that’s similar, right, and--”

 

“ _ Martin _ .”

 

Martin stops. Blinks. Discovers that he can, indeed, blush, as the heat and embarrassment pool in his cheeks. He manages to keep his hand from running sheepishly through his hair and looks up just in time to see Jonathan turning away.

 

“It’s not planet  _ reconstruction _ ,” he says, hands flurrying between some papers he’s brought out of nowhere, “Nor is it design, or build, or any of the other departments you may have heard of, though I suppose what you’ve come up with is closer than the rest.” 

 

His fingers come to rest on a page that seems to have caught his interest, and he draws it out from the pile, free hand reaching to hit a few buttons on the console beside him.

 

“I look over old cases-- planets that have been turned over, sold, destroyed by war or pestilence, or just, more often-- abandoned. Usually they’re properties already owned by Stellar Firma, either acquisitions or experiments gone wrong. Whatever the case, we-  _ I _ look over the various statements, judge what went wrong, brainstorm a few suggestions, put together a proposal, and submit it to goodness knows who.” 

 

“Alright, okay, so… where do I come in?”

 

Jonathan laughs, but it’s clipped, and Martin can’t really find anything humorous about the situation anyways.

 

“As my assistant, I expect that you’ll be helping me with all of it.”

 

“ _ All _ of it?”

 

“You’re not some glorified secretary, if that’s what you’re asking. You’ll have to keep up better than that.”

 

The words are delivered without bite, though, and he begins shuffling through the stack of papers again. His right arm gropes absently for something that apparently isn’t there, as he turns and begins to ask “Say, Martin, do you know where I’ve put my--”

 

He cuts off, eyes having landed properly on Martin, and Martin’s surprised to see the easy softness nestled within them for the fraction of a second before he fully registers Martin’s presence. Jonathan looks away, and when his gaze flickers back, the overwhelming mixture of contempt and-- something else, an emotion Martin can’t yet identify-- that washes over him makes him wonder if he’d entirely imagined what he’d seen only moments earlier.

 

It’s Martin who looks away this time. 

 

He stands uncomfortably in silence for a while, unsure of what to do with any of himself, before Jonathan seems to take pity on him and gives him something to do.

 

“Turn those screens on, will you? 

 

Martin hurries to the task, glad for an excuse to step even a few feet away from Jonathan.

When he gets to the console on the wall, however, there are more buttons and switches and blinking lights than he’d have thought necessary for what seem for all purposes like standard screens-- not that he knows what ‘standard’ means exactly.

 

“Er- Jonathan?” he asks, still a little wary of what his new boss’s reaction might be.

 

To his credit, Jonathan’s head does snap his way immediately, though if Martin had turned he would have seen a incomprehensible expression on his face.

 

“Jon,” he says, finally.

 

“What?”

 

“Jon. Not Jonathan.”

 

He leans back into his chair as if a great weight has been taken off of his chest, turns back to his work like Martin had never called him in the first place.

 

“Well, Jon--  _ how _ am I supposed to turn on the screens?”

 

“Figure it out.”

 

_ Fine _ , thinks Martin. He can do this without Jon’s unhelpful apathy staring him down. He spends a bit of time reading the handwritten labels pasted by each unit in the console, all incomprehensible things like “Grey,” and “Steep,” and-- “Edict?” None of it seems helpful, but after a bit of experimental trial and error (and with some inadvertent machine jostling of Jon in the process,) he thinks he’s got the lay of the land enough to be comfortable setting the room up in the days to come.

 

He gives the console a last once-over to keep himself occupied, and notices a small button in the corner, the same black as the console, though its surface is faded and worn. Next to it is another label, this one with just a smiley face drawn on. He’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean.

 

Chancing another look up at Jon, who seems absorbed in his work, Martin presses the button.

 

<ROLEPLAY HOLOVISION INITIATED>

 

“ _ No, _ ” says Jon, a surprising ferocity in his tone as his head snaps up towards Martin, and he crosses the room to jab at the button that shuts the thing off. Martin blinks up at him, confused--  _ isn’t this how it’s supposed to work?-- _ and Jon sighs, rubs his temples with one hand before looking back up at him. Martin notes, abstractly, the streaks of grey running through his hair, prematurely aging him ten, fifteen years. He wonders if it’s natural, or if it’s the sort of thing Jon thinks is a trend. He doesn’t know enough about the man to be surprised either way.

 

“I’ve found,” Jon begins, and pauses as if choosing his words carefully, “it’s...easier, to work without the immersion.” His tone changes, becomes brisk and cool once again. “Increases productivity, for one, and considering  _ your _ situation, you hardly ought to be the one advocating against that.”

 

“Sorry-- my situation?”

 

Jon stares at him blankly.

 

“The satisfaction clause.”

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t--”

“Ah. Yes. I always forget how little information you all start with. Yes, Martin, if our clients aren’t satisfied with our little proposals at the end of any particular work cycle, you will be...replaced. Recycled.”

 

“ _ What?  _ But- But I--”

 

Jon ignores him, shrugs off all his further questions, and eventually, Martin retreats back into his chair, unable to take his eyes off of Jon, hands shaking slightly, though whether out of fear or anger he’s not quite sure yet.

 

They pass the rest of the shift in silence, aside from the occasional ‘can you pass this,’ and ‘give that here,’ and vague  _ yes _ es and  _ no _ s from Jon.

 

It’s almost a relief when he leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thirteen subscribers!!!! my goodness i'm flattered! :) enjoy

From the time he’d spent with Jon during their first meeting, Martin hadn’t thought him the type to play hooky with work-- criticism and harsh gaze aside, the man certainly had seemed to have the work ethic of a particularly strong ox, whatever that was, and in the few free moments Martin had caught himself staring, his diligence was evident in the fluidity of his movements as he leaned over to hit buttons and throw switches and fiddle with panels nearly just out of his grasp, all without looking up from the pages he was muttering over. Muscle memory is not a skill that comes with anything but routine.

 

And yet,

 

And yet.

 

It is nearly half-past two, more than four hours past the time Jon was meant to come in, nearly halfway through their shift, and the Architect is still nowhere to be seen. Martin briefly wonders if Jon is avoiding him, if he’d rather just let Martin get recycled and a Martin-8 to take his place than confront him about whatever issue he’s so clearly got.

 

He wishes Jon would just  _ tell _ him what he’s doing wrong; at least that way he could make an effort to fix it, or at least have the satisfaction of retreating into the background for a viable reason.  _ Perhaps yesterday was an off day? _ After all, getting a new clone certainly doesn’t sound like the sort of thing that happens every day-- but then again, what does he know? He certainly doesn’t have any memories of what ‘recycling’ might be like, which makes sense, he supposes, if it really does mean the end. Panic is not a desirable quality in an employee.

 

Not for the first time, he wonders what had happened to Martin-6.

 

He hasn’t yet tried asking-- the closest he’s gotten so far has been to ask about Jon’s previous experiences with Stellar Firma-- were they, er,  _ good _ employers? Kind? Kind enough to, say, overlook, maybe, a new clone’s initial mistakes?-- to which Jon had let out a quick, sharp laugh. The ensuing silence had made it clear that that was the only answer Martin was going to get, and he hadn’t pressed further.

 

Shivering in the dark isn’t a great alternative, but it’s the only one Martin’s got as he waits. And waits. And waits; the untouched brief for the day pulsing softly on one of the screens, a constant reminder of the deadline hanging over his head. 

 

Another hour passes. Still no Jon.

 

Another.

 

And another.

 

Martin has, by now, gotten himself shocked at least thirteen different times, in thirteen different ways, attempting to unlock the brief himself. Apparently, as he’s found out, the system won’t let him in without some sort of administrative key, which, at the moment, he doesn’t have, but Jon does. But with the very conspicuous lack of Jon at the moment…

 

The time is now 5:17. Yeah. He’s screwed.

 

In an attempt to try and convince himself that the cold, vaguely sticky floor of a voiceless void (planetary architect’s design and reconstruction room) is the best possible location for a final resting place, he sinks into the Architect’s chair, curls up with his head on his arms, and drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

“That’s my chair,” says a voice, sounding just as vaguely irritated as the last time he’d heard it.

 

Martin’s eyes fly open.

 

“Oh! Oh-- sorry, here--” As he shifts his weight to get up from the chair, the wheels begin to spin under the imbalance pressure, the resulting force climbing through the chair and pushing against Martin. He’s pitched forward, flying across the room with a force that isn’t helped by the fact that Jon, whose eyes had widened as he’d seen Martin’s folly take place in slow motion, has had the presence of mind to say “voice command: gravity OFF--” right before Martin crashes into him, spinning wildly, their combined mass propelling them to the far wall.

 

Martin closes his eyes tightly, avoids opening them for fear of Jon’s expression, and tries not to concentrate so hard on how  _ warm _ Jon’s hand is, clutching a fistful of his jumpsuit like this. He leans his head against the wall and lets out a low moan of pain, and Jon jerks, relaxing into the wall for the briefest fraction of a second before going rigid as a board. Martin can feel the tension in his legs through his own jumpsuit. It’s not pleasant. He tries to step back, away, but the antigravity measures send a surge of panic through him as his flailing legs fail to make any sort of purchase, and he finds himself grappling desperately at the front of Jon’s non-regulation sweater just to keep himself anchored.

 

The sweater is soft, he finds, though that’s certainly not a thought that he ought to be having right now,  _ especially _ when the object of his affection-- or at least the person wearing it-- is looking at him with such an expression of displeasure and distaste that Martin suspects biting directly into a lemon-- whatever that means-- would not produce nearly half so much the same reaction. 

 

“Sorry,” he stammers out, hands curled tightly into the fabric at Jon’s sides, and Jon looks at him with that same unamused expression as he moves his own fingers to prise off Martin’s one by one.

 

And then they’re holding hands, and Martin’s only been alive less than twenty-four hours; he shouldn’t know what it is to flush like this or duck his head out of an emotion he can’t quite explain. Thankfully, Jon doesn’t seem to notice-- or if he has, he’s doing a very fine job of not reacting any which way. Martin can feel his mouth moving to form some words-- his lips brushing against the ends of his hair sends shivers running down his spine-- and he doesn’t realize until it’s far too late that the command Jon had been giving was

 

“gravity ON.”

 

He falls to the floor in an unceremonious heap, Jon having long extraciated his hands from his grip. In stark contrast and looking quite unfairly unruffled, Jon himself had landed firmly on his feet, and now makes his way back to his chair, the chair Martin had fallen asleep in.

 

Martin suspects this isn’t the best time to ask him why he’s been so late.

 

He picks himself up and watches as Jon sets about bringing up today’s files. There’s only a little bit of resentment when Jon is able to unlock the brief that had been locked away tantalizingly out of reach the entire day with a mere press of a finger, and Martin quashes it down in favor of brushing himself off and doing his best to forget how soft Jon’s sweater had been in comparison to his jumpsuit.

 

Whether he is successful is very much up for debate; the air around his face begins to go hot, and Martin finds himself all at once overwhelmed with the desperate need to break the immediate silence that envelops him and Jon in separate pockets, keeps them in the separate lanes that the respective fabrics of their clothing are only too happy to keep reminding him of. He takes a deep, steadying breath. The only noise in the background is the scratchy peel of Jon turning a piece of paper over-- yes, really,  _ physical _ pages; there’s a gnawing sense in the back of Martin’s mind that Jon isn’t as representative of all the planetary architects as his position as Head might imply-- and it reminds Martin of something he knows he’s never experienced: the sensation of fingers in his hair, nails scratching at his scalp in a repetitive, slow, comforting motion.

 

He shakes his head. Blinks. The feeling is gone, and with Jon apparently so engrossed in his work, there’s no indication that anyone noticed anything amiss besides himself. Plastering a smile onto his face, he gingerly slides out the seat next to Jon and slips into it.

 

“So. Where do we start?”

 

Jon side-eyes him as his hands continue working, but he must eventually deem Martin’s question worthy enough, because he answers,

 

“Well, all our work is done by hand, so I suppose you could start by translating this portion here.”

 

“...Sorry?”

 

“Translate. This section here? Jesus, Martin; I don’t think I could have made that any more clear.”

 

“No, no, Jon, I-- I understood what you were saying; I wasn’t-- or well, I guess I  _ was _ born yesterday, but-- I know what translating means. I’m just not, um, sure how to do that?”

 

Jon raises an eyebrow.

 

Well, typically, you’d start by knowing both languages, which in your case shouldn’t...” he trails off, unsure of how to finish, or unwilling to. (Martin isn’t sure which he’d prefer.)

 

“Shouldn’t…?”

 

Jon shakes his head.

 

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Now, this document is written primarily in Ou’erta-- fairly basic, as far as these things go.”

 

He looks at Martin impatiently.

 

“...Er, Jon?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Why are you staring at me?”

 

“Are you planning on starting on that translation any time soon?”

 

“Oh! Er-- yes, of course. Right away,” says Martin, and bites back the words threatening to spill over his tongue and admit the truth: no matter how many languages the last Martins had known,  _ this _ Martin is only capable of fluency in the language he’s been speaking this entire time.

He suspects if he tells Jon this, it could only serve to worsen his mood, and w ith the threat of recycling hanging on Jon’s every whim? That’s the last thing he needs.  He keeps his head down and stares at the words in the hopes that their meanings will somehow just come to him.

 

He imagines this so thoroughly that when his hand starts moving on its own, it takes a moment before he notices with a start.

 

When he hands the translation to Jon, who looks over it, eyes narrowed, the resulting nod of approval sets something flaring in his chest, strong enough to drown out the surprise pooling in his own eyes.


	3. a different perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reeeewind.

_Statement of J. Sims, Planetary Designer, Lower Level - Citizen Employee #12043133_

 

_Case #1630711_

 

Statement of Jonathan Sims, Lower Level Planetary Designer for Stellar Firma Limited. I’m not sure why they keep making us read these intros in when the system will automatically append my information to the head of the transcribed text. Apparently, they’ve been having some problems with the computer system, not that this old piece of what they like to call ‘vintage technology’ has ever been reliable anyways. It almost makes me wish I’d chosen another career path, one that didn’t involve cramped little rooms covered in blinding white furnishings and ‘the technology of the gods,’ like something out of a science fiction drama from the last millennium. You’d think with all their resources, Stellar Firma would have at least invented a decent oxygen-safe cigarette by now.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 1: **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Dissatisfaction detected. Security alerted.” END SOURCE]

 

Oh, for Board’s sake-- For the record, I am perfectly content in my position here at Stellar Firma’s Planetary Design Division. I just sometimes wish that, the accommodations were more… accommodating.

 

I suppose I _had_ expected more when I first was moved here, if only because I’d heard rumors that the request came from a member of the Board itself, but, of course, nothing ever really came to light, and I suppose it’s my fault for keeping my hopes up. And before the system says anything-- My hope levels are well within the regulated employee standards, thank you very much.

 

Not much to say for today’s log; ever since last week’s _disaster,_ we’ve mostly been running damage control trying to appease the Goddess of Whatever Lake Moon The Fifty-Secondth--

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1: **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Sarcasm detected. Security alerted.” END SOURCE]

 

and our division hasn’t churned out anything that isn’t a pale ellipsoid in all that time. Honestly, I’m sick of it. At least before, with clients, I could distract myself with their- eccentric demands. Now, all I can do is sit around and wait for the Architect over in Reconstruction to give the all-clear.

 

Speaking of the Architect, I still haven’t met her. I suppose that’s to be expected; I’m just a lowly Designer, after all, Board-transferred or not, but I don’t even know her _name_ , just her initials. I’ve tried asking my line manager when he comes in for the weekly review, but he’s never been the forthcoming type, and just advises me to get more rest, and to save the inquisitiveness for the design process. He could be right, but… then again, Elias has never been quite the imaginative type.

 

I wonder if the Architect goes through a line manager? Of course, I don’t have much contact with the other Planetary Designers-- there’s a saying, I believe, about just what type of company we can be, and I for one can hardly refute it-- but there are a couple I do speak to with some semblance of regularity, and Tim has implied on more than one occasion that there might be more to the Architect than what little speculation exists around her.

I must say, I have to agree, if only because there is so little we _do_ know about her- when I ask, no one seems particularly inclined to share details, though some of us _must_ have met her before… right? There have been rumors…

 

Though, I’m not quite sure if I’m ready to let idle gossip taint my official employee logs for Stellar Firma quite yet; I’m entirely sure that Elias listens to all of these, and while it might provide a break from the monotony of his existence, I’d prefer to keep my job as is, at least for the forseeable future.

 

I’ve had a reasonable number of reviews so far-- with everyone pulling triple duty after the Watercresstin debacle of last week, I’ve had three just in the last five days-- but for the most part they’ve been reasonably spaced, about every month or so. Of course, I’ve heard of hopeless cases where line managers are forced to check in every week, and I’ve also heard about the sorts of.. punishments that supposedly could accompany them, but while I’ll certainly do my best to avoid any such consequences, I consider all of this to be, quite frankly, nonsense, for the most part, brought upon by a shameless lack of workplace ethics and a drink too much at the cosmic lounge.

 

One of those drinks too many is getting someone fired, I believe, if one were to take part in the office gossip, which I know, of course, Elias for one won’t. I suppose we all have our vices, but really, drinking oneself to the point of climbing up onto a passing table and shrieking the lyrics of a long-gone song into the carefully balanced chaos the place prides itself on is really too much. Certainly enough for me to consider termination, if I were to be in charge of that division-- and no, that wasn’t a request. If anything, what I wouldn’t give to join Reconstruction, to work with the Architect, even if for a day. Just think, what I could learn from the woman who decides it all, who reviews every failed and burned and stolen planet, separates the weak from the unlucky, charts the future of Stellar Firma with just a collection of reject statements and a red pen.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1: **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Passion approaching dangerous levels. Security alerted.” END SOURCE]

 

Alright. That last sentence was a bit too poetic for my tastes-- that new transfer ought to have been here to hear it; I hear he’s interested in that sort of thing- but I meant what I said by it. If I could get even one peek into the Reconstructionists’ ivory tower, well… it could improve my own skills as a Designer.

 

I suppose that’s all I have for this time around. I did warn you there was nothing of note to report, Elias. If anything I’ve rambled a bit, with all the tangents I’ve gone on. I do hope that won’t affect my performance rating-- I’d hate to be demoted to

 

[NON-SPEECH SOUND DETECTED: “EURGH”]

 

Level 3 slurry again; I don’t think I could handle it for another month.

I do have a request, before I sign off. Tim tells me that that new transfer I mentioned will be making rounds with the other designers before he settles in properly. Normally, I wouldn’t take this as issue for alarm, as you know how Tim can spread gossip before it is entirely fact, but I ran into Sasha the other day, and she confirmed what he had been saying.

 

Normally, rounds would be fine-- it’s hardly the same as being forced to take on a _partner_ (and you don’t know how glad I am that you’ve kept me out of the clone-testing loop, really, Elias; I owe you for that--) but I’ve heard rumors about this transfer and his _utter incompetence_ which even Sasha was able to confirm, though in not so many words.

 

Elias, I cannot afford to compromise my work for the sake of ‘showing the ropes’ to some bumbling fool, especially after this last week, for which I suspect my sector is going to receiving some heavy complaints down the line. Now, I’m sure he’s a nice enough fellow, but there are plenty of other people in the department he can make rounds with, and while there’s every chance you’ve recognized this and have already drawn up his rota with other citizen employees, I just wanted to have it on the record that--

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1: **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Door opening.” END SOURCE]

 

Sorry, what?

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 2: **CITIZEN EMPLOYEE #11273123:** “Oh, hello. Sorry, am I interrupting?” END SOURCE]

 

A bit, yes-- sorry, who are you?

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Oh-- didn’t they tell you I was coming?” END SOURCE]

 

No. Is- Is this another impromptu review? Where’s Elias?

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Elias? He sent me here, actually, but… I don’t _think_ this a review..” END SOURCE]

 

If you’re looking to submit a complaint, that office is two down and to the left.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Oh-- No, no, no complaints here. I’m, uh, looking for Jonathan Sims? I supposed I should have said-- I’m the new transfer?” END SOURCE]

 

...Of course. I don’t suppose you’re here for a rotation.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Yes, actually, I am-- did they not tell you? I could go put in a complaint, if you’d like.” END SOURCE]

 

No- No, No, that won’t be necessary. I suppose you might as well sit down. Here.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Thanks-- Jonathan?” END SOURCE]

 

Jon.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Jon, right, okay. I’m Martin Blackwood, by the way-- figure if they didn’t tell you I was coming, they didn’t tell you who I was either, so--” END SOURCE]

 

Martin. One of my first rules of planetary design is to keep the talking to a minimum of necessity. And yes, before you ask, it does help.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “It does?” END SOURCE]

 

 _Yes_.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Right, then.” END SOURCE]

 

Give me a second to pull up today’s brief. And oh, bother, let me just--

 

_Statement ends._

 

_Record signed and dated._

 

_Statement archived._


	4. Chapter 4

Jon is late again the next day. Martin tries not to look at him as he fiddles with the printer in an attempt to get a paper copy of the reports-- something that’ll be easier on his eyes than the bright blue light of the screens that activate the instant Jon steps inside the room. (He swears he can  _ feel  _ his pupils contract when the world snaps from dark to light, and he doubts it’s anything resembling healthy.)

 

Jon’s eyes don’t have this issue. Logically, Martin knows that he’s probably coming from a well-lit hallway, or from whatever else is on the other side of the door he’s never been past. (He’s not envious. He’s  _ not _ ,) but that doesn’t stop him from staring once Jon’s crossed the threshold and the lights are at their usual unfortunate brightness. His eyes are tired, the sort of puffy and dark that comes only when a body has had enough, and Martin finds himself wondering if he gets  _ any _ sleep-- he’s pretty sure that, as a clone, he doesn’t exist to make up for the sleep debt of planetary reconstructionists, but with the way Jon sways gently before he sinks into his chair, he thinks that he wouldn’t mind doing it if it meant Jon would be-- well, on time, at least. 

 

“More translations?” he ventures. It’s not that he’s  _ scared _ of Jon-- Board knows he could snap him like a twig, probably, if there weren’t carefully designed security protocols and an entire omniscient camera and computer system in place, and not that he  _ wants _ to, just that he knows he’s sizeably larger than Jon-- and even then, maybe it’s not that he could fold him in half so much as he could crush him if he fell on him with enough force and they were in precarious enough of a position, entirely by accident of course, maybe similar to the incident with the chair last week, if Jon hadn’t turned gravity off-- but at the end of it, he’s not trying to think about hurting Jon on purpose, he really isn’t-- it was just a metaphor-- and he’s still not entirely sure whether Stellar Firma can see into his brain or not, so, really, every one of these thoughts that really are perfectly innocent but could be drastically misconstrued feel  _ wrong _ and  _ bad _ and  _ deadly-- _ because if Stellar Firma decided to take any of this the wrong way, then it’s the end of the line for Martin-7 and before he can blink, there’ll be a number eight in to take his place-- probably. 

 

Well. He hasn’t been recycled  _ yet _ . So… Stellar Firma probably can’t see into his head? Probably. He’s still not entirely off his guard.

 

Jon is staring at him, mouth open and moving, saying something that probably amounts to the sense of disapproval Martin can sense radiating off of him, and Martin blinks and tunes in just in time to hear:

 

“...is  _ wrong _ with you; Martin, Martin can you hear me?”

 

“Y-yes, Jon, yes, I can hear you,” he says hastily, and when he looks up again, he’s certain he doesn’t imagine the spark of panic that’s quickly fading from Jon’s eyes.

 

“Sorry,” he says, and then he says it again, after Jon’s flung a section of virtual screen over to his workspace with more vigor than ought to be absolutely necessary, and he keeps his head down and does his translations with no further discussion.

 

He’s had no luck on the translating front; though he’d stayed up almost the entirety of the “night” trying to figure an explanation, or a trigger, or--  _ something _ that could account for why exactly he doesn’t know what a spider is, but he’s able to translate hundreds of texts from across at least five different languages. He isn’t even  _ good _ at all of them; Jon had taken one look at his translation for a report on the planet-moon of Gallena, and had given him an expression that said that the lemon he’d bitten into that time had been particularly sour, and an order to do it again, which Martin  _ did _ , not that he thought the second time around had been any better. 

 

There are instances when he wonders if he should ask Jon what’s happening to him; if the slight narrowing of his eyes and raising of his eyebrows and the way his face shifts into that same strange emotion Martin can’t identify as he reads over his translations is indicative of something greater, something Jon’s not telling him. But _ that’s ridiculous _ , he reminds himself, every time he gets a little too close to actually trying it out-- if Jon knows that there’s something  _ wrong _ with Martin, he might demand a new clone, and then Martin will have to be recycled to make way for Martin-8, because Stellar Firma doesn’t like to  _ waste _ . 

 

Instead, he keeps his head down, and tries not to annoy Jon too much, Sisyphean task though that may be, and does his work and hopes that he’ll be able to figure it out on his own, or at least hide it well enough. 

 

He tries to keep his eyes off of Jon, too, but that’s proving to be a little harder, especially when every five minutes or so, he gets the feeling that he ought to be looking up, making sure that Jon is still there and hasn’t suddenly disappeared-- even though, avoiding the fact that Jon would be well within his rights to up and leave on him, if that happened, the lights would shut off on his exit and Martin would have long been plunged into darkness. He tries to remind himself of this, chews at the inside of his cheek in the hopes that the small bit of pain will be enough to keep him on task.

 

And it is, mostly. He manages to get through three more translation before his eyes flicker back up to Jon, to how he’s sitting hunched over an array of screens, how he hardly has to look up to navigate the endless menus that Martin still doesn’t believe it’s possible for any one human being to know so intimately.

 

It’s funny, he thinks. Jon doesn’t  _ look _ the type to get on with technology, at least besides the basics-- holoscreen, sustenance tubes, various appliances, his brain helpfully supplies. In another life, Jon certainly could have been the type to deliberately take a step back from it all, and for one brief moment, Martin wonders what life might be like if  _ he _ , Martin Blackwood, was the planetary reconstructionist, and Jon the clone. 

 

 _That’s a traitorous thought if there ever was one,_ he thinks, and then he blinks, because _Martin_ _Blackwood? Who--?_

 

He doesn’t get a chance to properly follow this train of thought, because just at that moment, of  _ course _ just at that moment, Jon clears his throat and announces that he’s going to get a coffee, and would Martin like anything?

 

Martin stares.

 

“Um? All I really know is-- er-- slurry?” he offers. “And I don’t really  _ like _ that, I think; only drink it because I have to, really, so I think I’d- I’d rather not, I guess.”

 

“Are you thirsty?”

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

Jon looks at him like there isn’t a greater fool living on any of the hundreds of millions of planets Stellar Firma has designed.

 

“Never mind,” he says. “Just- go back to your work, Martin.” 

 

The screen behind him flickers, and then all of a sudden he’s gone.

 

It takes Martin a moment to realize what’s different this time. The lights-- they’re still on. Martin looks down at his hands just to be sure, and yes, as expected they’re there. He wiggles his fingers. He watches his fingers wiggle. This is normal. He sits there for a second, stunned, but fully intending to go back to his translations, when a beep-beep sounds from out of the blue, and startles his leg into jerking up and hitting the workspace surface. 

 

Oh, how he wishes Jon were the swearing type.

 

As it is, he lets out a cry, and then quickly grips the surface and tries to seethe through the pain quietly, because there’s always the chance that him causing a disruption could be grounds for recycling, and he’s not quite sure how close the designers all work together.

 

He thinks these are valid grounds for not immediately noticing the sudden bath of blue light he’s submerged in and the big, blinking cursor hovering not ten centimeters from his face.

 

He yelps and backs away, leg still throbbing, but the light doesn’t shift and the cursor doesn’t jump out at him, so after a moment’s pause he edges slowly closer, feet poised to push off the ground and fling his chair backwards if need be. He scoots across one square of flooring. No response. Another. Nothing. Another-- 

 

“NAME?” a voice demands, seemingly out of nowhere, and Martin’s heart stops for a second before he untangles his shock into a working set of neurons and manages, weakly, 

 

“Er… Jonathan Sims?”

 

<VOICE PATTERN INCORRECT> booms the computer, and Martin flinches. Of  _ course _ it wouldn’t work. But--

 

<WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY AGAIN?>

 

Martin nods, then figures the system isn’t advanced enough to translate that into a  _ yes _ .

 

“Martin-7?” he offers.

 

A pulse of blue light ripples across the screen.

 

<USER RECOGNIZED.>

 

Martin feels a stab of surprise. Surely it couldn’t be that easy to hack Stellar Firma’s systems? He waits, some anticipation building, for the screen to change colors, or whatever it typically does. After a moment, another pulse of blue light seems to radiate across the window, and he sits up eagerly.

 

<USER NOT RECOGNIZED. NEW USER DETECTED. PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME.>

 

Right. The earlier acceptance was probably a malfunction, then.

 

“Uh-- Martin-7.”

 

He winces as the system plays his own voice back at him.  _ Is my voice really that high? _

 

<USER ACCEPTED. INFORMATION ACCESS PERMITTED:>

 

Martin allows his hopes to rise again, at least for the fraction of a second before the computer lets out a loud sound, pitched downwards enough for Martin to expect what comes next before the words actually come:

 

<ERROR. ERROR. ERROR. ERROR. ERROR.ERROR.ERROR.ERRORERRORERRORERROR-- >

 

<UNKNOWN ERROR DETECTED. SYSTEM REBOOT NECESSARY.>

 

<REBOOTING… NOW.>

 

The screen goes dark, all traces of blue gone, gentle pulsing of the reports screen aside. Martin blinks, tenses. Waits for something else to happen, for another sound to rip through the silence and nearly knock him out of his seat. Waits for another chance to finally learn more about this place-- Stellar Firma, the planetary designers, maybe, even, an older version of Martin.

 

But there’s nothing.

 

The screen doesn’t turn back on, no voice booms at him from the room’s 360 degree speakers, and none of the systems indicate anything out of the ordinary.

 

Jon comes back with two cups in his hands, and Martin’s already in too much shock to process what this might mean, so he accepts the drink he’s offered with no questions or objections, and the two of them settle back into a comfortable silence.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in one day?? yes! (if you start reading this as the first update since last week, go back and read chapter four first!)

They've fallen into a routine. Jon comes in comfortably late, just enough to set Martin off with a bit of panicking, does whatever work he has to do within the remaining allotted time, delegating a few tasks-- translations, cross-referencing, any follow-up research that can be done from the confines of their room-- to Martin along the way. They don’t talk much, and what conversation they do have usually revolves around the work itself. Martin doesn’t bring up the computer strangeness, or Martin-6, or the new name that’s been rattling around his head for a while ( _Blackwood,_ Blackwood _, Martin Blackwood-- it doesn’t sound half bad,_ ) and though Jon doesn’t ask again if Martin wants a drink of something that isn’t hyper-processed clone slurry, every time he leaves to get himself something, he returns, without fail, with two cups in his hands.

 

Martin doesn’t question it, afraid to ruin their delicate game of a balance. He drinks what he’s offered-- he doesn’t think it’s coffee, because Jon’s described it as _bitter_ , and the one time he’d been brought something with that particular flavor he’d taken one sip and screwed up his face in disgust (Jon had let out a small bark of a laugh at that, before promptly returning to his work, but each time Martin had looked over afterwards, he’d seen the ghost of a smile lingering at the edges of his lips, and something mighty warm had swelled in his chest.)

 

It’s nice, as far as monotonous existences go, Martin admits. Not that he has much experience-- but Jon’s snapping isn’t the worst thing in the world to deal with, and he really does seem to put the effort into his work once he has shown up, which Martin is grateful for, considering his life depends on it.

 

Today, Jon seems particularly stressed; the circles under his eyes are darker than ever, even against his skin, and there’s a tense nervous energy to him that Martin doesn’t think he can blame the coffee for. His fingers drum against the workspace surface, trembling with frenetic energy, and his eyes seem a bit more dilated than usual-- not that Martin’s looking, of course.

 

At one point, Jon turns to reach for a panel on his far upper right, and as he stretches for it, the sleeve of his left arm rides up, exposing a plastic-looking little blue rectangle. Without thinking, Martin reaches out and catches his wrist, drawing it closer to him as something in his brain puts together pieces he’s not entirely sure he’s supposed to have. The shape, the color, the tightness with which it adheres to Jon’s skin…

 

“Jon,” he says, eyes slowly turning upwards, blinking through the fog of confusion that laps and recedes at his brain as the gears slowly grind to a conclusion, “Are you taking stimulants?”

 

Jon scowls at him and snatches his arm from Martin’s grip with an emphatic “It’s none of your business, Martin.”

 

“But it is!” says Martin, and he’s beginning to panic now, “If you’re taking drugs, and I’m supposed to help you, then… then my life is _literally_ on the line!”

 

 _What the hell, Jon,_ he wants to say, because Jon certainly hadn’t _seemed_ like a drug addict, had none of the typical signs the packages in his head are telling him would be present, and because how long has Jon been doing this? How long has Martin’s life been in danger? Does Jon even _care?_

 _Probably not,_ he thinks bitterly; _You’re just a clone, and, however nice he’s been lately with the drinks-- at the end of the day, you can be_ easily _replaced_.

 

He wonders if _this_ is what had happened to Martin-6, to Martin-5, even; hell, maybe _all_ the Martins before him-- Step 1: Take drugs. Step 2: Clone finds drugs. Step 3: Recycle clone before Stellar Firma finds out-- and only notices Jon is calling his name with some urgency when he feels a warm hand on his shoulder.

 

He’s caught for a second between begging for his life, promising to keep Jon’s secret, and taking the moral high ground, if only because it might endear him to Stellar Firma, keep him alive even if something unsavory does twist in his gut at the thought; and it’s this hesitation that lets Jon squeeze in a couple of words edgewise.

 

“Martin. Martin. _Martin._ Listen to me.”

 

His hand tightens on Martin’s shoulder.

 

“Martin, calm down.”

 

“I _am_ calm.”

 

“No, you’re not, and I’m not in the mood to explain anything to a man who can’t control himself for long enough to hear said explanation.”

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” and then, under his breath: “Fine enough for someone who’s about to get _recycled_.”

 

The hand on his shoulder releases some of its pressure as Jon blinks.

 

“What?”

 

“Listen, Jon, I don’t care what you do in your off-hours, but if you could not be _high_ while on the clock, my self-preservation would very much appreciate it.”

 

As soon as he says the words, Martin regrets them, but no amount of wishing can take them back now, and he braces himself for an angry retort. _So much for taking the teacher’s pet route._

 

To his surprise, Jon doesn’t yell, or even inject more than the usual acerbity into his tone. If anything he sounds… amused?

 

“I’m not _high_ , Martin.” He crosses his arms and continues under his breath, “Although Georgie would have a field day with that one.”

 

“But you _are_ on drugs.”

 

Jon sighs, but his foot taps against the floor impatiently, and Martin can’t help but direct a pointed look downward.

 

“I’m on _approved_ stimulant patches, yes. Approved means ‘I’ve been cleared to use these, not that it’s any of your concern.’ But no, you’re not going to be _recycled_. Whatever gave you that idea?”

 

Martin feels a hot shame begin to rise, but he quashes it down. Something in him is telling him to ask about the dosage, an instinct that nags at him from a place he can’t quite access, but well-- his instincts have been doing pretty well so far. It’s not like it would be particularly difficult for Jon to lie to him. But he knows that if he asks he risks actually angering Jon, and though that’s something he’s secretly curious to see, now isn’t the time, and Jon doesn’t seem the type to enjoy anything even resembling babying.

 

“Section 10.3.21 of the Clone Assistant’s Handbook.”

 

“Board help me; Martin _what_ are you talking about?”

 

“Pull it up, then; look it up, go on.”

 

Jon looks a little startled at how vehement Martin’s tone is, and quite honestly Martin is too, but he’s determined to win this particular argument, determined to prove that he wasn’t just _overreacting_ (although, _was_ he?)

 

“Fine.”

 

He flicks his wrist, and the screen behind him zooms, and it opens up files to the rhythm of Jon’s blinks, and Martin takes a moment to step back from the strange amalgamation of emotion running through his veins to marvel at how _streamlined_ it all is; how he’d ever thought Jon and technology ought not to be mixed he doesn’t know; the movements of Jon and the screen are so fluid, so perfectly in sync, and Martin may not have much experience, but he thinks it’s something special indeed.

 

These thoughts are all dismissed as soon as Jon brings up the right file, and he doesn’t even turn around to read the words on the screen before he’s repeating them back at Martin and sighing, saying that it isn’t quite that literal, and that Martin will see at their next review, and Martin is still several steps behind, trying to understand how it is that Jon is saying these things at him-- he’s not sure if it’s the lack of a conspicuous earpiece or feed, or simply that it feels wrong for someone who never has to worry about being recycled to say that “he’ll see,” especially with the track record the number “seven” tacked onto his name implies, but he’s lost, a little, drowning in thoughts that he’s not entirely sure all are his.

 

“I’ve been needing to stay up late, in order to… finish some work,” Jon is saying, “So I put in an application for stimulants so I could get it all done. As I’m sure you very well know, Stellar Firma is _very_ invested in getting their output… _out_ , and, surprising as it may seem, I, too, am replaceable.”

 

“But you’re the Architect,” Martin says. His head is spinning, a bit, whether from the information or the sudden drain of the fight out of him, he’s not sure, and he slumps down into his chair, head too heavy to look Jon in the eyes.

 

“Yes. And there have been Architects before me, and there will undoubtedly be Architects after.”

 

“But--”

 

“There are no ‘buts.’ _Everyone_ is replaceable, Martin. Save maybe the Board itself, and even then… I’m not sure.”

 

<TREASONOUS THOUGHT DETECTED>, says the computer, and Jon scowls at it.

 

“Shut up,” he says, presumably to it, and takes a moment to close his eyes, hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

<SECURITY ALERTED>, it says anyway.

 

Martin’s too busy biting back a smile to react when Jon crumples to the floor.

 

* * *

 

Jon comes to still on the floor, head cradled in a lap that belongs to Martin, whose face is pinched tight, skin drained and pale. The blue plastic of the stimulant patch lies off to the side, torn off of Jon's arm, and small pinpricks of blood well up in the general area where the microneedles had been previously attached.

 

“Martin?” he says, and Martin winces at the hoarseness of his voice, dry and sticking in his throat.

 

“Jon?” says Martin, worried despite himself, but then Jon relaxes against him, and Martin tries to ignore the warmth that blossoms in his chest. Jon stays like that for a moment, eyes half-closed, and Martin barely dares to breathe for fear of disturbing him. So when Jon reaches one hand up to brush against Martin’s cheek, hand rough, but warm against his skin, thumb tracing down gently, almost reverently down the side of his face, Martin goes very, very still.

 

He considers not saying anything; he really, really does, but there’s a part of him-- the part that’s definitely _him_ , and not from somewhere else-- that revolts at the idea, and so he asks, unable to keep a little resignation from slipping into his voice,

 

“Er-- Jon? What are you doing?”

 

Immediately, Jon’s hand stills, and, after just a moment’s pause, he snatches his hand away and makes to sit up. Martin’s arm shoots out and stops him halfway through the motion. Jon groans.

 

“I’m _fine_ , Martin.”

 

“No,” Martin snaps, and he surprises himself with the ferocity of his words, “You’re not. You hit your head on the workspace going down, and the last thing you should be doing after cranial trauma is moving around.”

 

“And how, exactly, do you know that?”

 

“Basic science package,” Martin says, with no less fire behind the words, “and common sense.”

 

Jon doesn’t respond, and something quite like fear pools at the base of Martin’s stomach.

 

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he says, pushing the feeling aside.

 

Jon pushes his arm away impatiently.

 

“Four, and I’m _fine_ , Martin. Let me up.”

 

Martin doesn’t move.

 

“We still have work to finish,” Jon points out, “Unless you’d rather be recycled?”

 

“I--”

 

“No, don’t respond to that. Sorry.”

 

Martin blinks.

 

“For what?”

 

“That was… unnecessary.”

 

“It’s not like it was that much worse than anything you’ve said before.”

 

Jon tenses again, and Martin silently curses.

 

“Martin--” Jon starts to say, and Martin cuts him off.

 

“It’s fine. Just-- stay lying down. At least for a while longer.”

 

Jon’s gaze flickers to his face, and he must see something there in the set of his jaw or the stubbornness sparking in his eyes, because he adjusts his head in Martin’s lap and closes his eyes without further complaint.

 

He falls asleep to the rhythm of Martin’s fingers absently carding through his hair.

 

* * *

 

The look Jon gives Martin is rueful when medical personnel arrive to escort him away, but he doesn’t look _angry_.

 

He’s back the very next day, business as usual.

He’s not late.


	6. viridian

_Statement of J. Sims, Planetary Designer, Lower Level - Citizen Employee #12043133_

 

_Case #1631411_

 

Statement of Jonathan Sims, Lower Level Planetary Designer for Stellar Firma. Last week’s transfer, Martin Blackwood, is due again today; _someone_ really has no consideration for my preferences, at any rate-- and really, Elias, I know you have other designers at your disposal.

 

But, very well; I suppose I have no choice.

 

Martin himself is, surprisingly, somehow both less and more incompetent than Tim had made him out to be. For an inter-departmental transfer, there’s a surprising amount he doesn’t know about the basic workings of the design process, but he’s clearly been drilled in all areas of protocol, and he’s a quick learner besides. As much as I hate to say it, I… may have been hasty in my initial assessment based off of what Tim and Sasha were able to corroborate.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 1: **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Guilt detected. Security alerted.” END SOURCE]

 

That’s enough of that from _you_.

Speaking of Tim and Sasha, they’ve got it into their heads to organize some sort of-- _function_ for all the designers. I had originally had no intention whatsoever of attending, but Tim has been arguing his way into convincing me that this might be my best chance of getting a proper look at the Architect. I asked him how exactly he planned on getting her to attend, but he just winked and said to “leave it to him.”

 

I have a bad feeling about this, though Tim did manage to extract my promising to show my face before I was able to get away, so I suppose… I’m going. Neither he nor Sasha will give me any more details about this “function,” not even a date, so it might be in all of our best interests to never mention this again and hope that they’ll just forget to organize the thing.

 

Still, a part of me hopes that the event will go through after all, if only so I can meet this “G.R.” At the very least, perhaps one of the designers assigned to her reconstruction team will attend, or her assistant, if she has one, and I can arrange some sort of meeting, or communication, from there.

 

A few updates on the design front: I received a request for another planet centering on those _ridiculous_ bloodsports, and while I understand that every assignment is important, and every client valuable, I really can’t see the reasoning behind wasting resources that could be better-served elsewhere on a planet where thousands of people are sent to be murdered for entertainment. At the very least, it ought to tie Stellar Firma to all sorts of legal monstrosities-- though no doubt there’s probably some responsibility disclaimer or other in place firmly anchoring us far away from anyone potentially filled with enough foolish ill-will to try and take Stellar Firma to court.

 

Even then, I have no desire to repeat the events of two weeks ago, especially if I’m the primary designer on the case involved.

 

That’s all I have to say about that.

 

I’d sign off here, if it weren’t for the fact that under the new regulations imposed after the incident two weeks ago, I cannot start working until ‘all designers on duty in the module are on site.’ Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, as, as you know, I am typically the only designer in this module, but since a certain line manager decided to assign me to a transfer rotation once a week, I’m now subject to the whims of said new transfer who apparently has no respect for the construct of time.

 

He ought to have arrived by now; if he makes a habit of being late it won’t matter whether his output improves any; I _will_ -

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1: **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Door opening.” END SOURCE]

 

That had better be him.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 2: **CITIZEN EMPLOYEE #11273123:** “Hello, Jon; how are--” END SOURCE]

 

Martin. Do you know what time it is?

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Um. Six. Ish?” END SOURCE]

 

And what time, exactly, is “ish.”

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Oh-- Here, hold this-- I’ve got a watch here somewhere--” END SOURCE]

 

No, Martin. I know the time. It’s plastered all over these screens. These screens that I can’t unlock, until you’ve arrived. Which means I can’t get started on my work.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Oh, well… sorry? Sorry. I mean, it _is_ only seven past, and we’ve got-- what, eight hours? I think we can manage it. Oh, and here, I’ll take that one back, thanks.” END SOURCE]

 

And what am I supposed to do with the other one?

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “... Drink it?” END SOURCE]

 

What?

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Unless you don’t like tea, of course-- Sorry, I should’ve asked, but the orders always get held up no matter how efficient Stellar Firma likes to claim they are--” END SOURCE]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1: **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Stellar Firma employees are reminded that all internal complaints should be properly deposited at the appropriate office for processing.” END SOURCE]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “--and I didn’t want to risk being any later than I was already going to be.” END SOURCE]

 

Oh.

 

What is it?

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “It’s just tea. I’m not trying to poison you, Jon.” END SOURCE]

 

That’s almost a pity; I could use an excuse to stay away from bloodsports planets.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Sorry, what?” END SOURCE]

 

Don’t worry about it. You’ll find out soon enough.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Uh, okay. Oh, wow, that’s-- do you actually like slurry?” END SOURCE]

 

What? No, who on this Boardforsaken station does?

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “But-- But you’ve drank so much of it.” END SOURCE]

 

Well, yes, I do need something to keep me going, and not all of us have time to wander off for tea.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “You know, I’m almost afraid to ask, but-- how long have you been here?” END SOURCE]

 

Long enough.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Jon.” END SOURCE]

 

It’s really none of your business, Martin, and if you’re going to insist on having this conversation while the recorder’s on, you might as well state your name for the record.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Doesn’t the computer automatically detect and add them?” END SOURCE]

 

We’ve had some… complications, lately. Now, if you don’t mind…

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2: **(11273123):** “Okay. Well. Identifying source: Martin Blackwood, security clearance level: Viridian.” END SOURCE]

 

_Viridian?_

 

[SOURCE 2 IDENTIFIED: **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Yeah.” END SOURCE]

 

But--

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1: **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Defensiveness detected. Security alerted.” END SOURCE]

 

Alright. Fine. I see. Not my business. I can respect that, I suppose.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Sure, and you’ve been here since _three thirty_. Don’t you ever sleep?”]

 

How--

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “I can read a timestamp, you know. I’m not entirely incompetent; your log’s been running.”]

 

...Right, well, we don’t have time for this; we’ve got quite a few planets to get through today, and I am sure that neither of us are getting paid to waste time discussing my work habits.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Fair enough, I guess.”]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1: **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Curiosity detected. Security alerted.” END SOURCE]

 

What is it?

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Sorry, I just-- _Do_ you sleep?”]

 

Of course I sleep, Martin; don’t be ridiculous.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “It’s just that, you know, when I was rounding with other designers, and they heard I’ve been rounding with you, they… had some things to say.. and, well, from the timestamps on these logs--”]

 

You’ve been _looking at my logs?_

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Well-- no-- the screen just defaulted; I swear; I wasn’t _trying_ to look--”]

 

\--Because that’s a _pretty heavy_ violation of trust considering this is your _second day_ \--

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “It’s not my second day, Jon. And I’d-- never mind.”]

 

What, what is it?

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Nothing.”]

 

It can’t be _nothing_ , if you were so eager to say it only a minute ago; spit it out.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “I was just going to say that I’d never abuse my clearance like that.”]

 

...

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Drink your tea, Jon. It’s going to go cold.”]

 

I’ll just-- okay, then.

 

…

 

…

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Has it got enough sugars?”]

 

What? Oh, yes, the tea-- yes; it’s fine, thank you.

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Identified as: Drinking]

 

It’s-- quite good, actually.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “I didn’t want to assume one way or the other, so I just went for two-- real sugars, though, not that terrible substitute everyone seems to be drinking these days.”]

 

That’s… thoughtful.

 

...

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Look, Jon, I don’t want the-- whole thing to be an issue. It’s why I didn’t want to identify myself for the recorder in the first place.”]

 

It’s fine, Martin. I’m not a child, prone to fits of jealousy and tantrums. The only _issue_ is whether we can finish these nine planets in the seven and a half hours we have left.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “So we’ll… get on, then?”]

 

We can get on _with it_.

 

But yes, if we must.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1: **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Rolled eyes detected. Security alerted.]

 

For Board’s sake.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “I’m not so sure Gertrude might not just _annoy_ you into accidentally liking me.”]

 

Gertrude?

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Oh-- you know, the--”]

 

I don’t speak flailing hand gestures, Martin.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Just-- _Gertrude_. You know, the Architect? Yeah, that’s the word.”]

 

…

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Jon?”]

 

Huh. _Gertrude_.

 

_Statement ends._

 

_Record signed and dated._

 

_Statement archived._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, martin outranks jon  
> yes, i spent half an hour devising the security clearance system  
> i like to think stellar firma uses colors as rankings because there's so little of it in their actual station design-- the clearance colors can then serve as accent colors for their respective designated areas against all the white, which also makes less room for excuses like 'i didn't know i wasn't cleared to be here'


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really shouldn't be posting twice in one day again; i definitely can't keep this up once exams start hitting again-- but enjoy in the meantime? again, i posted practically this morning, so if you haven't read the chapter titled 'viridian,' go read that before this one. or don't. i can't control you. (but seriously, do go read it.)

The weekend passes much more quickly than Martin expects. The last time he’d had to wait sixty-four hours in the dark, alone, he'd been ready to cry with relief the second Jon had returned, had only held back because of the sneaking suspicion that Jon wouldn’t have been impressed in the slightest, and would probably have given him double the usual work in retaliation.

 

This time, however, it seems like only a few hours have passed before the lights are back on and Jon's telltale footsteps cross the room, and Martin is nearly too sleepy to uncurl himself from what he's designated his sleeping chair (it's the most comfortable, of the two in the room. Jon has long since stopped pointing out that it's his.)

 

“Martin. I hope you don’t mind.”

 

“Wh- mind? Why would I mind?”

 

“Well, I’m not entirely sure how you spend your Saturday nights, but I assume it’s more enjoyable than the usual reconstruction work?”

 

Oh. So it's _not_ Monday.

 

“Jon, I’m trapped in this room. With no lights. I don’t _do_ anything.”

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

“So it’s Saturday, then? And, no, before you ask, I didn’t know; can’t keep track of time in the dark, and hold on a second-- don’t _you_ have anything to do with your weekends? And what are you wearing?”

 

Jon looks taken aback at the sudden barrage of questions, and he drops into the chair that’s typically Martin’s, when they’re both in the room, seemingly processing each thing Martin’s just asked.

 

“Clothes? Non-regulation, I suppose, but clothing nonetheless. And yes, it’s Saturday-- that’s why I’m here, actually; it’s the only place I can get away from Tim and Sasha. I didn’t mean to wake you, I’m sorry.”

 

Thoughts of sleep have long been whisked away, so Martin chooses to ignore this part of Jon’s statement and focus on the new names instead.

 

“Tim? Sasha?”

 

“Oh-- right, you wouldn’t have met them. They’re two of the planetary designers. Used to be my co-workers, actually-- I almost miss it, sometimes.” He says this last part a bit softly, and Martin has to remind himself not to stare.

 

“So… you miss them, but you’re hiding from them? I guess that makes about as much sense as anything else here…?”

 

Jon laughs, then, and Martin tries not to marvel at how it transforms his face. He seems a different person entirely, in that moment, and suddenly, the memory of his hand against Martin’s cheek comes to mind, unbidden. The resulting heat is hard to ignore, and he hopes desperately that it doesn’t show, or at the very least, that Jon won’t notice.

 

“It’s… I enjoy Tim and Sasha’s company, as much as I can enjoy anyone’s company on this station, but they get particularly… aggressive this time of year, and I’ve never been a big fan of parties.”

 

“Parties? Aggressive? Do they drink a lot, then?”

 

“No, no, it’s nothing like that; I’m not so sure that Tim even drinks anymore, to be quite honest, and Sasha’s never been a big fan, or so she says. No, they just proclaimed themselves organizers of these things a long time ago, and because I consider them _friends_ , and because I agreed to show my face at the very first one, years ago, they’ve been after me ever since to attend.”

 

“You could always say no, you know. I’m sure they’d understand.”

 

Jon sighs.

“Oh believe me, Martin, I _do_ say no. It’s just that, every year or so, around this time, I feel… I don’t know. I don’t think _lonely_ is quite the right word; ‘guilty,’ maybe? Whatever the case, I always end up going to this particular function. It’s always a mistake, and I usually just try and stick it through, but this time I just _had_ to squirrel out early, and, somehow, I ended up here, where Tim and Sasha can’t get in to try and, and _check_ on me, and where I can-- or where I thought I could-- be alone.”

 

He lets out a long, heavy breath, and looks a bit-- ashamed, as if he hadn’t meant to say any of that, not out loud, and certainly not to Martin.

 

“Not that I’d forgotten about you; I had.. hoped I could sneak in, keep the lights off, maybe, and just sit and collect my thoughts for a minute. I truly am sorry, Martin.”

 

“You look nice,” says Martin, instead of something _normal_ like “It’s alright,” or “It _is_ your office,” or, he’s not sure, just _anything_ besides that, but it’s already too late, and Jon is looking at him with a very strange expression.

 

“Thank you?”

 

“You can ignore that,” Martin says quickly. “It’s fine. Do you want me to be quiet, or?--”

 

“No. No, it’s alright. It’s kind of nice, actually, having someone to talk to who can actually hold a conversation.”

 

“Oh.. okay, yeah, then, I can do that, sure. Is there… something you want to talk about, or…?”

 

“Not really,” says Jon, relaxing into his chair. “Is there something you have in mind?”

 

“We could talk about the party.”

 

He doesn’t really expect Jon to shrug in a way that spurs him to go ahead and probe, but he does, so he licks his lips nervously and says,

 

“What’s it like? A party, I mean.”

 

“I don’t know. Loud, I suppose. Good food, sometimes, if Tim and Sasha have managed to bribe the right people. There’s usually dancing.”

 

“Can you dance?” asks Martin, intrigued besides himself, a faint image of Jon whirling elegantly around a dance floor popping unbidden into his head.

 

“No,” says Jon, “Not really,” and the image disappears as quickly as it had formed, another puzzle piece that doesn’t fit into the mystery that is _Jonathan Sims_. “I- someone tried to teach me, once, but I don’t think the lessons have quite stuck.” He tilts his head. “Can you?”

 

“No,” Martin admits, “In fact, I think that was one of the packages they uninstalled before they dropped me in here.”

 

“That’s… unfortunate,” says Jon, and he does not meet his eyes. “Dancing’s a bit overrated anyways.”

 

Martin disagrees, but then again, he doesn’t quite know what it’s like.

 

“So what else do you do at these parties?” he asks, trying, and failing, to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

 

“I don’t know. Like I said, I’m not really a big fan.”

 

“Disappointing,” Martin says without thinking, and then-- “I mean! That’s perfectly valid and all, it’s just--”

 

“You’d like to go.”

 

The flatness in his voice makes it clear this isn’t a question, so Martin just keeps his mouth shut and nods, eyes wide. Will Jon?--

 

“Hm,” says Jon, but he doesn’t elaborate.

 

They fall into one of their usual silences-- comfortable, these days-- though Martin’s burning to ask more, to experience this _party_ , even if only second-hand. He wonders if he’ll ever get a chance to step out of the room they’re in. Thinking about anything but the affirmative causes something to clench in his chest, so he does his best to set the issue away for later. Instead, he stares at Jon’s hands in his lap, graceful despite their random placement, fingers worrying against each other almost absently.

 

“Jon?”

 

Jon starts, as if he’d not been entirely present before.

 

“Yes?”

 

“It’s just-- you seem nervous. Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You also said you were fine after collapsing to the ground and hitting your head on the side of a desk, so forgive me if I don’t exactly believe you.”

 

“I appreciate the concern, but really, I’m fine. These things just always take it out of me.”

 

“Are you going to sleep here, then?”

 

“What? No,” says Jon, looking vaguely scandalized, then sober at the suggestion. “If-- If you’re trying to sleep, I can leave.”

 

“No! No, I don’t think I could sleep now, anyways.”

 

“That’s… I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s not your fault. Besides, I’m actually-- glad you came. I don’t think I could have taken more hours in the dark.”

 

Jon frowns.

 

“I’m sure we could find a way to have the computer let you into the controls.”

 

“Really?”

 

Martin tries to hide the hope in his voice.

 

Jon looks at him, then, _really_ looks at him, and must be having another one of those episodes where he seems to be seeing something beyond just _Martin-7_ , because he nods.

 

“Sure. If you’d like.”

 

“I _would_ like,” says Martin, and his cheeks heat again, though he’s not sure why, this time. Jon seems to sense it too, averting his eyes, scanning frantically for something to land on. He ends up on the computer, and scoots his seat over. Martin doesn’t see what he does, exactly, just a tilt of his head and a squint up into the screens, but that same blue light from last week floods the room, hitting Jon’s cheekbones at an angle that makes him look positively ghostly.

 

 _But still lovely,_ thinks Martin, and then scolds himself for it.

 

<NAME?>

 

“Jonathan Sims.”

 

<USER RECOGNIZED. WELCOME, JONATHAN.>

 

“Search for: Lights.”

 

<SEARCHING FOR: LIGHTS. SEARCH COMPLETE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR THE RESULTS?>

 

“No,” says Jon impatiently, already halfway down the list. “Ah, this might work. Select: Light Controls.”

 

<SELECTING LIGHT CONTROLS.>

 

“Mm, Power, Frequency, Color, Intensity.. Random?”

 

<SELECTING: RANDOM.>

 

Jon curses (Martin is thrilled) as the lights start to flicker on and off in a hauntingly regular strobe. At first, Martin’s eyes widen, drinking in the new effect, but the novelty quickly wears off as his head begins to hurt. Over the strobing, the computer continues on,

 

<CAN YOU GUESS WHAT SETTING IT IS? PLAY THIS INVENTIVE GAME FOR FREE ON YOUR VERY OWN OFFICE COMPUTER. FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY! STELLAR FIRMA WOULD LIKE TO REMIND CITIZEN EMPLOYEES THAT GAMES ARE NOT PERMITTED DURING WORKING HOURS. FAMILIES ARE ALSO NOT PERMITTED DURING WORKING HOURS. HAVE A LOVELY DAY.>

 

Jon groans over the Stellar Firma corporate theme.

 

“Frequency: High.”

 

<SETTING FREQUENCY TO: HIGH.>

 

The lights go back to normal. Martin blinks the spots out of his eyes, wobbling a little as he does so. Jon notices.

 

“You alright?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Jon stares at him for one long, hard second, then, apparently satisfied, turns back to the screen.

 

“Alright, scrolling… scrolling… ah, this looks right. Select: User Settings.”

 

<SELECTING: USER SETTINGS.>

 

“Select: Add User Permissions.”

 

“Can you do that yourself?” asks Martin, intrigued. Jon ignores him.

 

<SELECTING: ADD USER PERMISSIONS. WHICH USER WOULD YOU LIKE TO ADD?>

 

Jon waves a hand in his direction.

 

“Um… Martin-7?”

 

<USER RECOGNIZED. WELCOME, UM… MARTIN-7. ADDING PERMISSIONS NOW.>

 

They both wait, Jon with idle curiosity and Martin with bated breath.

 

<ADDING…>

 

Martin looks at Jon. His eyebrows are scrunched in a way that-- _are_ not _cute--_ signal something’s not quite right.

 

“Jon?”

 

<ADDING…>

 

“Hm?”

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

<ADDING…>

 

“It shouldn’t take quite this long, in my experience…”

 

<ADDING… ADDED-- ERROR. ERROR. ERROR. ERROR. ERROR.>

 

Jon sighs, and moves to exit the menu.

 

<ERROR. ERROR. ERROR. ERRORERRORERRORERROR→

 

Before his hand makes contact with the keyboard, the entire system crashes. Instantly, the lights go out, snapping the blue shut with it, and if Martin could have seen Jon’s face, he would have burst out laughing. As it is, there’s nothing to see by, not even a faint pulsing of the startup buttons, and Jon’s sigh sinks heavily to the floor.

 

They sit out the rest of the night with no lights, despite Jon’s best efforts.

 

It’s not so bad, all things considered; Martin manages to make Jon laugh again a number of times, and the sound alone is bright enough to pierce through the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon is wearing whatever you think he's wearing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> interlude.

Sunday is uneventful, as expected, except for the fact that Martin had, for some reason, expected Jon to still be there when he woke up. He isn’t, of course-- had probably slipped off the second Martin had fallen asleep-- but Martin’s still disappointed. He knows this isn’t fair. He’s quickly learning that _fair_ often has no influence on his life.

 

He tries getting into the computer, with no luck. There’s a nagging suspicion at the back of his mind that there _is_ another name he could try… but no, he’s not sure he’s ready to face whatever’s locked behind that authorization quite yet, not with their first review on the horizon, and certainly not after last night.

 

It takes every inch of his self-control to keep from saying it out loud.

 

_Blackwood. Black-wood. Mar-tin Black-wood._

 

The name feels familiar, not on his tongue, but in the base of his mind, as if there’s a part of his brain with a spot all ready for it to slot into. He knows this, but thinking about it doesn’t make anything clearer; he’s been down this road before. Many times. After all, there’s only so many hours a body can manage to sleep in any day.

 

“‘Frustrating’ is an understatement,” he says, out loud to no one in particular. Not that there’s anyone to hear him even if he’d wanted them to.

 

The thin line of blue running around the edge of the screen glows in recognition.

 

“You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?” says Martin, somewhat fondly. He reaches out a hand, hesitating right before making contact, letting his fingers hover a few centimeters from the light. It washes gently over his skin, and Martin swears for a second he sees it pulse once, as if-- ducking its head? But no. That would be ridiculous. It must be the dark getting to him. He blinks, hard, then focuses back on the light.

 

Steady as the thrum of the engines far below. He laughs, softly, nervously, and looks away.

 

Does his best not to think of strange lights in the dark, or of quiet smiles aimed his way, or the axe hanging over his head, gripped by a hand that can be traced back to jon, jon, _jon_.

 

* * *

 

Jonathan Sims sits on the edge of his metal bedframe, mattress upended against the wall. His hands clutch some floppy bits of paper-- an archaic way of storing pictorial information, sure, but… useful, for his purposes. He is not looking at their contents, staring instead straight ahead at the blank wall opposite him.

 

He is not a sentimental man.

 

If you were to study him carefully, you might begin to notice the slight shifting motion of his eyes from left to right, as if reading something invisible there in the air, positioned behind the glasses he insists on wearing long after his eyesight has been permanently fixed by Stellar Firma, subtle proof of his stubborn nature even when circumstances spiral beyond his control.

 

 _As they are now,_ he thinks, slumping a little into the hard metal. In a few minutes, he will have to slide the photographs back into the hollow between the bedframe and the mattress, pinned safely against the slats by the knowledge that Jon rarely sleeps in his bed anymore, and replace the covers and sole pillow to maintain the austere, detached presence he works so hard to cultivate. The cameras will come back online, and Jon will have to once again go about his day with the knowledge that Stellar Firma is watching, always watching; that the only respite comes from being the watch _er_ ; that even then so many sacrifices are made each day, and so few of them worth the end result.

 

When he has finished putting everything back in its proper place, he will return to his desk, whose surface is blank as the bed, the walls, his face. His hands will lift as if of their own accord, as if he is merely a marionette on strings, and will began carving out an elegant symphony in the air, waving in an intricate dance that is uninterpretable to anyone but the Architect. As he builds his worlds of datastreams and code, his shoulders will relax as he gives in to the familiar motions of maintenance and oversight. Sundays are meant to be for relaxation, in nod to the ancient traditions of religion and free markets, and so the Architect finds peace in his work, in giving himself over to ones and zeros, shedding the stresses of everyday concerns, of interactions, of _the big picture,_ focusing on the intricate details of the flood of information surrounding him instead, breathing in the words and the numbers and the

 

He will think, for a second, about Gertrude Robinson, how he knows she would have never done things this way; she did not enjoy this like he does, wouldn’t have wasted Sundays on mere busywork when there was so much for her to get done. He will feel guilt, then, but quickly snuff it out with the reminder that other Architects, older Architects, even, perhaps, wiser Architects, enjoyed this as much as he has been, had enjoyed it at far higher a cost.

 

He will forget her, then, as much as he can forget anything; discard her somewhere in the back of his mind to be dredged up another day, will turn for a second in the direction of-- no, he will not allow himself to go down that path, no matter how hard his heart pulls at its strings; but he is not controlled by them, now; he has a puppetmaster both new and old at the helm, a lump of fat and salt and logic they still call the word ‘brain,’ as if the modifications Stellar Firma continues to test on the human limbic system can still be considered natural, as if it all makes sense, somehow, to call things by their old names; there’s a safety in it, Jon will realize-- something that calms the human spirit, keeps the alarm from rising, because it’s _all so familiar, you know._

 

He will remember scalpels, and lights too bright for his flickering vision, and spots in the shapes of friends blinking out at the horizon of his sight even as his voice grows hoarse from screaming their names, the blue-coated hands above him refusing to still at his movement.

 

He will remember darkness, a black too deep to be the fabric of the universe welcoming him home, and then he will scold himself for getting caught up in things long past, will remind himself that those days are over and done with and that he ought to focus on the task at hand. It is only at this point that he will become aware of the tension that will have crept up into his shoulders, the stillness of his hand, his eyes. The realization that he has fallen off-track will hit him like a lightning bolt to the forehead, and the scar it leaves behind will only serve to flash him into more memories he doesn’t want to remember. He will curse himself for the slip, and blame himself for the emotion, and vow to himself to pull away once more, to begin the week afresh.

 

He will disconnect from the server, then, the picture of aggrandized defeat, and as the blue in the room drains back into the port of the screen, he will remain in silence, a lonely ghost, aching to flicker with those lost and gone before him.

 

But until then, he will grip the pictures in his hand tightly, steadfastly refusing to look at them, spine too straight for all the weight it carries.

 

* * *

 

Martin gets the computer on. It’s not his fault, he’s sure. At least, pretty sure. He’s fairly sure he hasn’t done anything differently than the previous three thousand times he’s tried, and if he _had_ , he definitely won’t be able to replicate it again. He’d just called up the screen again in what he thought was the exact same set of words and gestures-- he’d been experimenting with throwing in some subtle motions in an attempt to mimic Jon-- as always, and he’d been rewarded with a shift of the pulsing light to a lovely purple-- _violet, even_ \-- and just like that, he was in.

 

 _Better take advantage of it now, then_ , he thinks, and his eyes narrow as he scans the row of options presented to him on the screen. It’s almost too much; he has no idea where to start-- Stellar Firma history? It might be useful, but then again, he doubts everything around him was built in the last twenty years or less, and even then, how much could be relevant to anything involving an older version of him? Martins 1 through 6 are dead, and, more importantly, were clones, so they certainly couldn’t be so important as to figure in a brief history of Stella Firma Limited.

 

What, then? His profile doesn’t have much; there’s a grey rectangle in the corner that he assumes designates his security clearance, Clone (it matches his jumpsuit, down to the thin red stripe one-quarter of the way down,) and his name in crisp letters just above it, but besides the standard translucent menu blinking behind it, there’s nothing else to indicate this profile as specifically his. There _is_ an index of manuals, one of which at least he already knows by heart, but, again, there’s the problem of specificity. He’s not going to find specific gossip or outdated rumors in a handbook meant for newbie planetary designers. Now, if he could talk to the designers themselves…

 

_What were those two names Jon mentioned again? Tim? Tom? Sasha?_

 

It’s the slimmest of hopes, but he wonders-- if he could get a message to them, somehow-- or if they had clones of their own, who might be more willing to help a fellow clone out…? If there’s a messaging system embedded somewhere in the system…? _There must be,_ he thinks; there’s no way Jon physically leaves his room every time he wants to get something across to somebody; the man radiates the impression that he’d rather stay in one spot for eternity if given the option.

 

 _Ha,_ Martin thinks soberly; the bitter irony of that particular thought isn’t escaping him unnoticed, and he’s maybe a little more vicious with his prodding around the system, absorbed now in enough emotion to fully register the computer when it makes its next announcement.

 

<DOOR OPENING,> it says, and it takes until the door whooshes open and the clipped footsteps cross the threshold before Martin realizes with a start that there’s someone else in the room, someone who is decidedly _not Jon_.

  
“Well,” says a voice that makes Martin’s stomach drop and press itself against his gut. “This _is_ interesting.”


	9. record

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to daniel (@sciencematter) for looking over this chapter for me.  
> Note that I will be providing content warnings as needed for this story, and these warnings may contain mild spoilers. If you would like to avoid them, skip the labeled bolded section directly under this.
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER (contains mild spoilers):** Accidental semi-outing of trans character. One character unknowingly refers to trans character (who is a man) as ‘she’ (they do not realize that person they are speaking about is the same person as the trans character.)

_ Statement of J. Sims, Planetary Designer, Lower Level - Citizen Employee #12043133 _

 

_ Case #1632911 _

 

Statement of Jonathan Sims, Lower Level Planetary Designer for Stellar Firma.

 

I… submitted an application request for the reconstruction team. It’s probably a long shot. It’s definitely a long shot. I may be a Marigold-level designer, but Robinson’s team is exclusive to the highest degree, and besides, I think Elias might actually miss me if I’m transferred.

 

The application request was surprisingly easy to complete; it didn’t demand much information from me at all, though I suspect higher-ups will be reaching out to line managers and other superiors in order to build a complete profile. I also assume that the actual application itself will be significantly more time-intensive, and I’m seriously beginning to consider taking a day off to complete the damn thing. Assuming I get my request approved, of course, but I don’t expect there to be much trouble there.

 

...

 

Alright. Hopefully that was enough chatter to keep any prying eyes and ears away; now to the  _ real _ business:

 

I simply cannot understand for the life of me why Martin Blackwood holds Viridian clearance.

 

He’s not especially bright or talented; he picks things up well, but not at a rate to cause anyone to take notice; he certainly isn’t the best in his field, considering he’s been transferred  _ here _ ; he can’t be particularly influential, or he’d be able to skip the line every morning for his tea, and besides, his clearance would be higher than Viridian if he was well-connected.

 

He’s not lying, either-- and believe me, I’ve checked.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Opening employee profile: Martin Blackwood.” END SOURCE]

 

There, in the corner, by his name:  _ V-i. _ Viridian. I’ve done my best to check and see if there’s anything... untoward about his situation, but I’m not a hacker at the best of times, and the only thing of any significance I was able to find was a series of shimmery patches in multiple locations in his employee file.

 

You know, now that I think about it, that seems much less innocuous than I had assumed at three in the morning; hold on-- I’m going to--

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Editing mode enabled.” END SOURCE]

 

I do want to keep this information relatively to myself-- sorry, Elias-- but for clarity’s sake, I’ll just say that I spoke to Sasha earlier this week, and, after a long back-and-forth of inquiry on her part and deliberate vagueness on mine-- I’m not sure how close she is to Martin, and I’m not willing to risk this getting back to him-- I was able to convince her to teach me a few basic ‘tricks of the trade,’ as it were. 

 

I’m going to see if I’m able to find anything about those patches. I’ll check back in soon.

 

_ Statement paused. _

 

_ Statement resumes. _

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Frustration detected. Security alerted.” END SOURCE]

 

So I wasn’t able to uncover whatever is causing those strange patches. I  _ was _ however, able to confirm that they shouldn’t be there. Whatever Martin Blackwood is hiding, I  will find it. I may need to check back in with Sasha, see if I can convince her to help me out more directly. If it comes at the cost of a sick day ration or two, then so be it. 

 

I need to be able to trust my coworkers, transfer rotation or not.

 

_ Statement paused. _

 

_ Statement resumes. _

 

I caught Sasha on her break and had her in to take a look; she’s sitting here right now, sifting through what seems like an unending stream of code. I really don’t know how she does it; I suspect my own shortcomings in this particular area might prove to be a crucial oversight at some point in the future.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 2:  **CITIZEN EMPLOYEE #06133134:** “Well, you’ll always have me, Jon, especially if you’re going to keep paying me in sick day rations.” END SOURCE]

 

I never thought you the type to skip out on work.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2:  **(06133134):** “Oh, I’m not. But Tim is-- well, you know how he is, and he’s promised me two tickets to a show of my choosing for every ration.” END SOURCE]

 

I should have known.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Fondness detected. Security alerted.” END SOURCE]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2:  **(06133134):** Come on, Jon, don’t look so  _ disappointed; _ you’re not his  _ father _ . END SOURCE]

 

And thank Board for that.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2:  **(06133134):** “You can’t deny it’s useful for when review time comes around.” END SOURCE]

 

How many line managers has he been through again? Four? Five?

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2:  **(06133134):** “From what he tells me, this one’s on the way out, too, if you believe even half of what he says.” END SOURCE]

 

I think I’m better off not knowing the, ah, details. He’d better be careful, though, or they’ll give him Elias.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2:  **(06133134):** “You really think that’ll stop him?” END SOURCE]

 

I certainly  _ hope _ so, if only because I don’t think I could sit through an entire review knowing that he-- with Tim--

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2:  **(06133134):** “Fair enough. I’ll pass along that you don’t approve.” END SOURCE]

 

_ Sasha-- _

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2:  **(06133134):** “I think I’m nearly finished with this, by the way.” END SOURCE]

 

Oh-- er, uh, thank you.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2:  **(06133134):** “It’s no problem. But, look, Jon, I don’t know what you want with Martin, but… please think about what you’re doing. He’s a nice guy, and, well, you can’t deny the department could use another one of those.” END SOURCE]

 

I just want to make sure that he really is-- as you say-- a “nice guy.” There’s something off about him, Sasha. I understand if you don’t want to get involved any further, but I know what I’m doing.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 2:  **(06133134):** “I sure hope so. See you, Jon.” END SOURCE]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Door opening.” END SOURCE]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Door closing.” END SOURCE]

 

Alright. Let’s see what she’s found.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Opening employee profile: Martin Blackwood.” END SOURCE]

 

...

 

Oh.

 

Oh, Board.

 

_ Statement paused. _

 

_ Statement resumes. _

 

Alright. I’ve been clicking through the documents Sasha was able to bring up, and… it seems that I was right. More right than I expected, to be honest.

 

Whatever I was imagining, it was not… this. Identity theft. “Nice guy,” indeed.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Sarcasm detected.” END SOURCE]

 

I’m not yet sure why he went for this particular employee-- I suppose there is a resemblance, if you were to really look-- but I have a sinking suspicion it has to do with the clearance-- I checked,  _ Vi _ , it’s still there. I just-- she looks so young-- birth date’s in the corner; she  _ is _ so young. I… don’t want to think about what he might have done to get this ID. Where she might be now.

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Identified as: Heavy sigh]

 

I just-- I don’t  _ understand _ .

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Door opening.” END SOURCE]

 

I’ve never even  _ heard _ of--

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 3:  **CITIZEN EMPLOYEE #11273123 :: MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Oh, hi Jon-- I hoped I’d find you here; I just-- What are you doing?”]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Alarm detected. Security alerted.” END SOURCE]

 

Martin! What-- What are you doing here?

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Sorry, is that my-- is that  _ my employee profile? _ Jon, what the  _ hell-- _ ”]

 

You’re not supposed to be in until next week.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “And I’m pretty sure stripping away layers of other employees’ records isn’t something you’re supposed to be doing, but here we are.”]

 

Well-- I-- I mean, you can hardly come after me for that when-- you’ve-- this.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “I thought you didn’t speak exaggerated hand gestures.”]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Sarcasm detected. Security alerted.” END SOURCE]

 

Enough, Martin. I know you know what I mean.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “No, I’m pretty sure I have no idea what you’re going for, unless you’re about to wish me a belated happy birthday, in which case thank you and have you seen my jacket?”]

 

Wa-- Was that yesterday?

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Two days ago.”]

 

Right, well--  _ No _ , that is  _ not _ what I’m talking about, Martin, and if you really need me to spell it out to you, then let me just ask: Who is  _ this? _

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Identified as: Stabilizing breath]

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Me.”]

 

Come on, Martin; are you really going to try and--

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “That. Is me. People-- People used to call me that. But now they don’t.”]

 

...

 

Oh.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “And since Stellar Firma approved the official name change, it hasn’t been an issue. Until you--”]

 

Until I decided to make an absolute fool of myself and did-- all this.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Yeah, well.”]

 

I’m-- I’m sorry, Martin.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Yeah.”]

 

Er-- Happy belated birthday.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “See you next week, Jon.”]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** Door opening.]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** Door closing.]

 

Right.

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Identified as: Sigh]

 

Maybe Sasha was right.

 

I’d better… look into ways to keep this statement off the record.

 

_ Statement ends. _

 

_ Record signed and dated. _

 

_ Statement archived. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot to include this in the last chapter, but marina (@marinavermilion and marina-does-things) was lovely enough to make art depicting her interpretation of jon's party outfit! you can find it here: http://justasmalltownai.tumblr.com/post/183845847580/marina-does-things-justasmalltownai


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter length consistency? i don't know her

“Well. This _is_ interesting.”

 

Martin jumps, a low dread beginning to well up from his gut, spreading quickly with the knowledge that _that is not Jon_ . He turns, slowly, to face the voice, praying whoever it is will neither notice the screen behind him nor have the ability to provide _consequences_ for it.

 

The voice, it turns out, belongs to a man dressed not in the classic grey jumpsuit with stripes of color that both he (always, red) and Jon (usually, indigo) wear, instead dressed in a crisp button down and pants that Martin can only assume are nice, judging by the stiffness of the material. (Martin realizes, with a start, that he can imagine the feeling of such a fabric against his skin, as if he’s worn something similar before-- but this isn’t the time for images that aren’t his.) He holds a datapad in his hand, loosely, as if it’s part of a costume more than necessary to his occupation, and his eyes seem to bore into Martin as if he already knows everything about him.

 

Martin feels cornered.

 

The man allows an acceptably long pause to elapse before he breaks the silence.

 

“Where’s Jon?”

 

Martin nearly trips over his tongue in his haste to answer.

 

“Er- not here? Yet. Yet-- I’m sure he’ll be here soon?”

 

He’s lying through his teeth and he knows it, and, worse, the man in front of him seems to know it too. He can’t place it-- there’s no unsettlingly wide grin to contend with, no spark of entertainment for Martin to dance to. If anything, the man seems _bored_ . But… there’s something there, something that keeps Martin on edge, _something_ that he knows he won’t be able to defend himself against, if it comes down to that.

 

He fervently hopes it won’t.

 

 _It’s a Sunday; Jon’s not going to be showing up at all--_ he reminds himself, and, doing his very best not to turn his head and look at the screens, wonders if this man isn’t already fully aware of that.

 

“So, Martin…?”

 

Martin blinks.

 

“Seven! Right, I’m Martin- Seven, yes, that’s me.”

 

“...Right. Well, Martin, let me give you a proper welcome to Stellar Firma. _Terribly_ sorry that we had to cancel your first review, but with that nasty incident two weeks before you came in, mm, you know how it is, bureaucracy. Have to give employees the proper amount of time away from scrutiny after an extended time under pressure, and all that.”

 

He laughs as if he and Martin are sharing a private joke, and Martin, unsure of what to do, lets out a nervous attempt at a chuckle.

 

_So this must be Elias._

“Alright, now, let’s get down to business. No, no, don’t stand up--” (Martin wasn’t planning on it, but he wisely decides to keep this information to himself--) “I’ll just take this chair here-- Perfect. Oh, and what’s this?”

 

Martin’s blood runs cold. He doesn’t dare look up-- if Elias is looking at the screens--

 

“Looks like Jon’s left his notes here. I’ll have to have a word with him about that.”

 

Martin chances a peek, and yes-- there’s a sheaf of papers, pretty neatly stacked, for Jon, sitting on one of the workspaces, along with what must be his tie from yesterday, thrown haphazardly on top. He feels a cold rush of relief, and then, immediately, the hot prickling of guilt-- it’s not that he _wants_ Jon to get in trouble, he reminds himself; _It’s just that he’ll probably survive whatever comes next_.

 

“As for you, Martin, there are, of course, no protocols stopping me from interrogating _you_ , so I thought I could come down here and ask a couple of questions, establish a baseline, see how you’re getting on, things like that.”

 

“Oh! Oh, um, okay?”

 

“Wonderful." Elias leans back in his chair, crosses his legs. "So, Martin, how do you like the job?”

 

“It’s, er… I… It’s good? It’s-- very good, yes.”

 

“You don’t have to tailor your answers to what you think I _want_ to hear. Tell me how you really feel.”

 

“Well… sometimes… It’s confusing? But-- not that I can’t-- I can do the work, it’s just... “

 

“Things move a little too fast, sometimes?”

 

“Um-- yeah.”

 

“Right. Well, I’ll have a word with Jon about _that;_ I’m sure we’d both rather not have to rustle up a Martin-8 anytime soon.”

 

“Oh-- You don’t-- You don’t have to--”

 

“Really, Martin; there’s no need to worry. I’m Jon’s line manager; he may be the Architect, but he still has to answer to me.”

 

“O-Okay, then. I guess?”

 

“Speaking of Jon, dear Jon, how do you feel about him?”

 

Unbidden, Martin’s cheeks flush. He knows Elias didn’t mean it in that way, but… Board, he hopes the blush doesn’t show. He’d be able to explain _that_ away even less articulately than he could his search history, and if Elias really is going to be having all these talks with Jon so very soon, he doesn’t doubt that this would get passed along as well. Besides, how _does_ he feel about Jon? He knows that his heart seems to speed up, beat a little louder in his chest every time they’re alone together-- which is most of the week, to be sure-- but there’s a little something extra that tugs at him backwards, like he’s doing something wrong, like he’s shoving into someone else’s place every time Jon holds his gaze a little too long, or lets his hand brush against his, or-- or stays up all night talking to him in a dark room too cramped for the both of them.

 

Elias, of course, can know none of this.

 

“He’s… alright?”

 

“That’s hardly a stellar recommendation. What’s he done now?”

 

“Nothing! He’s-- done nothing. I just-- I don’t know, um, he seems…” He searches for a descriptor he can justify later to Jon, “er, closed off?”

 

“Ah, yes. That does sound like him.” Elias drops his voice, as if he’s letting him in on a secret. “We’ve been trying to get him out more, socialize him a bit, so he doesn’t end up like his predecessor.”

 

“What-- what happened to them?”

 

“Oh, it’s not important. Certainly nothing you need to be worrying about, young Martin. So you’d like him to, what, open up more?” He sighs. “I’m not sure that’s within the power of anybody alive, here, but I’ll pass the message along.”

 

“You really don’t have to--”

 

“No, no; it’s no trouble. No trouble at all.”

 

He flashes him that unsettling smile again, the one that says _I already know you inside and out_ , and looks down at his datapad as if to check on something.

 

“Hm, I think we can cover most of the rest of this at the next review-- your first review; how exciting. I’ve got just one more question, then.”

 

Martin looks at him expectantly, ready to talk about his workload, or his performance, or, even, the heating in the room-- all seem equally likely. Elias’s grin seems a little extra triumphant when he leans in:

 

“How, exactly, did you get yourself into the computer system?”

 

Martin’s heart stops. All of a sudden, there isn’t enough air in the room; isn’t enough for him to breathe, not after the wind’s been knocked right out of him like this.

 

“I--”

 

“And-- Martin-- I want you think _very_ carefully before you answer me.”

 

Elias is a shark in front of him, already with the taste of the kill on his teeth, the scent of blood wrapped up in his brain. Martin stares, blank, terrified, unsure of what to say but incapable of making a run for it even if there was anywhere to go.

 

“Um-- I-- Well--”

 

The _ding!_ of the computer system, when it comes, has never been more of a relief.

 

<DOOR OPENING>

 

Martin looks up, surprised. It’s one thing to have one unannounced visitor, but _two?_ He sneaks a glance at Elias and confirms that yes, whoever’s about to walk in, Elias hasn’t been expecting either.

 

Once the sound of shoes on floor reaches his ears, though, Martin knows who it is. He feels the familiar heat flow back into his face as Jon walks in, as composed as ever, his face hardening slightly once his eyes fall on Elias.

 

Elias looks down at his datapad, then back up at Jon, his face splitting into the first _real_ smile he’s given since he walked into the room.

 

“Just barely fifteen minutes, Jon. I’m impressed.”

 

“ _Why,_ ” Jon asks, and, oh-- he seems a little out of breath; Martin can’t imagine why-- “are you terrorizing my clone, Elias?”

 

“I’d hardly call it _terrorizing,_ ” comes the response, “Isn’t that right, Martin?”

 

“Er--”

 

“Martin, don’t answer that.”

 

“Oh-- okay.”

 

Elias raises an eyebrow.

 

“Good to see you’ve learned the difference between clone and human.”

 

_...Right._

Jon, at least, does not seem impressed with Elias’s remark.

 

“What do you want, Elias.”

 

Elias lifts his hands, palms turned outwards, positioning himself as harmless.

 

“I just wanted to check in and see how he was doing. No need to get tetchy. Really, there was no reason for you to come down like this.”

 

“Elias.”

 

“Jon.”

 

They both stare at each other, Jon’s eyes defiant, Elias’s challenging. Martin doesn’t understand the machinations at play, here, nor is he entirely sure he wants to, so instead, while they’re having their little silent war, he takes the opportunity to exit the search screen and shut down the computer.

 

Eventually, Elias looks away-- Martin doesn’t know if this means Jon’s won, or if Elias just has other things to do than sit in a room all day staring at one of his subordinates-- and stands up, stretching as if to leave. He grabs Jon’s notes off of the workspace and slaps them into his hands.

 

“Take care of your workspace, Jon. You don’t know who might be watching, looking through things when you’re not around.”

 

Martin is sure Elias very deliberately avoids looking his way. From the way Jon tracks Elias’s path from the notes to his hands, he’s pretty sure he’s noticed as well. Something in his stomach twists at the prospect of having to explain his searching-- any of it-- to Jon.

 

“By the way,” Elias calls, now halfway out the door, “Martin thinks you need to be more sociable.”

 

“What? I-- I didn’t--”

 

“See you around, Martin, Jon.”

 

<DOOR OPENING>

 

<DOOR CLOSING>

 

The silence that ensues is both very long and extremely uncomfortable. Martin busies himself with looking anywhere but at Jon’s face, eventually settling upon contemplating on his sweater.

 

“Martin.”

 

It looks quite soft, if he’s being honest; looks very much like the same material Jon was wearing at the beginning of last week, back when he’d fallen off of the chair and straight into Jon’s arms and-- _no, no,_ focus _._

 

“Martin.”

 

Martin notes the purple-orange-green pattern of the argyle tessellation running all over the body of the sweater. He wants to trace over it with his fingers, but, again-- not exactly something feasible in the near future.

 

“ _Martin._ ”

 

He’s not so sure the colors work, together like that, but then again, who is he to know anything about fashion? He wonders what Tim and Sasha might think.

 

“Martin, are you going to answer me, or am I going to have to _make_ you answer me?”

 

Martin’s eyes snap up to Jon, but he doesn’t look angry, just irritated, and-- maybe a bit concerned? He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because he’s just become aware that his tongue is moving of its own accord, and he’s not sure why he says it, but he does:

 

“I can answer for _myself_ , thank you.”

 

Both of them look surprised. Jon’s expression has an added component of sheepishness, and he mumbles “sorry,” though what exactly he’s apologizing for Martin isn’t sure.

 

“Right, then, are you alright?”

 

Oh, perfect, now he’s gone and made Martin feel bad.

 

“Fine,” he mutters, once again not meeting Jon’s eyes.

 

“Martin,” comes his voice, and there’s a soft touch on his arm, and he looks up to see Jon now crouching beside him, the concern now clearly evident.

 

“Really, Jon; I’m fine. We just talked.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“He said he had a few questions for me, to-- see how I was doing, or whatever.”

 

“Oh.” A slight pause, then-- “How _are_ you doing?”

 

“Fine, really; everything’s just fine. I mean I’m stuck in this room all day, and I spend half my life in darkness, and you’re nice enough, I guess, but you barely talk to me, and I worry constantly that I’ll do something wrong by accident and I’ll get replaced, but it’s all fine, it’s fine, and oh Board Jon, I didn’t mean to say any of that, I’m sorry, please don’t recycle me.”

 

Jon’s eyes are wide behind his glasses, and he takes his hand off of Martin, lets it hover just above his skin, and something in Martin yearns to tell him to put it back, that he _likes_ it there. But _no,_ he _can’t_ say that, especially not after his outburst, and, suddenly weary, he wishes Jon would leave and leave him alone in the dark.

 

“You’re not going to be recycled, Martin.”

 

“How do you know?” Martin snaps back, because he’s tired and he’s angry, and he wants Jon _gone_.

 

“I won’t let it happen.”

 

He says this simply, like it’s no big deal, and Martin can’t help but squint up at him suspiciously.

 

“And why not?”

 

“Jesus, Martin; because you’re a person!”

 

“Tell that to Martins one through six.”

 

Jon opens his mouth as if to retort, then, clearly thinking better of it, shuts it.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“No. No, you hardly have any reason to apologize, Martin. If I were in your place I’d have chewed me out a long time before now.”

 

He moves his hand to the arm of Martin’s chair, so that he’s now propped on his knees on the floor in front of him, and Martin is aware it’s a very ridiculous position, but he can’t deny that he appreciates Jon making the effort to quite literally see eye-to-eye with him. A part of him wants to reach out and cup his face. _That’s not you_.

 

“But I promise, Martin, if my word means anything to you-- I will _not_ let you get recycled, now or ever.”

 

Martin wants to kiss him. He wants him to leave, to go away, leave him alone with his traitorous thoughts, yes, but he also very much wants to reach out and pull Jon to him, press his lips to his, feel the weight of Jon in his lap, hands in his hair. Something tells him he might taste like cinnamon, with a faint flavor of smoke. He hates it, hates that of all the emotions he could manifest first, he oscillates between _whatever this is,_ sadness, and anger, with no room for things like joy, excitement, even jealousy-- hates that he knows the feelings aren’t his, can’t be his, that he hasn’t had enough time to warm up to Jon this much, even if he does bring him tea and stay up to talk to him, and look at him as he does now, with that deep, deep-set concern that makes Martin want to spill his guts and heart and soul to him.

 

He doesn’t, though. Instead, all he allows himself to say is “thank you,” and if Jon’s face falls just a fraction of a second before he pushes himself back up, then he ought not to feel the twinge that goes through him from toe to tip.

 

They remain like that for a while, unmoving, Jon standing, staring down at him, he tired, trying to sit in his chair and ignore the watching going on right next to him, before Jon finally clears his throat and begins to make a move for the door.

 

“Hey, Jon?” Martin says, stopping him in his tracks, because he wants him to stay as much as he wants him gone, and besides, he’s curious.

 

“What is it?”

 

“What happened two weeks ago?”

 

Jon’s brow furrows as he takes in the question.

 

“Nothing? Why do you ask?”

 

“Oh-- just something Elias mentioned; it’s really not an issue, really.”

 

Jon stares at him for a good, long moment, face frustratingly impassive, frame poised as if he’s not sure whether to take a step towards Martin or continue on towards the door.

 

In the end, though-- and Martin won’t admit that he’s disappointed-- he heads out as planned, leaving Martin to stare at the crumpled tie still left on the workspace.

 

<DOOR OPENING>

 

<DOOR CLOSING>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon absolutely _sprinted_ all the way from his room to the consultation office the second he realized what was going on.


	11. Chapter 11

There is something nagging at the edge of his mind, just out of reach, and Martin wishes it would shut up and go away. It’s tantalizing, dancing just beyond where he can manipulate his thoughts enough to understand; some truth he ought to know in this moment that prefers leading him on to making itself known. He’s sure that if he sat and just thought about it for long enough of a time, he’d be able to puzzle whatever it is out, but… he’s rather distracted at the moment.

 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

 

The words are brushed hot against his lips, and Martin heats even as he imagines the computer system, good old G182BW, somewhere above them insisting that they not eat said coins.

 

“Nothing, just…” 

 

He looks up at Jon, all skin and bones and surprisingly pleasant warmth, takes in his uncharacteristically rakish smile, loses all sense of where he’d been meaning to take the words.

 

“Just?” prompts Jon, gently, shifting slightly in his lap in an attempt to get more comfortable. Martin hums and tightens his grip on his sides, keeping him from floating off somewhere-- they’ve turned the gravity off, at Jon’s request. Martin thinks it’s a somewhat strange one-- but he’s not here to judge, just to hold Jon tightly and to maybe kiss him when he asks.

 

(He’s asked three times already, and Martin reddens at the thought of each one.)

 

Jon’s smile widens, and he runs one slim finger along Martin’s jaw, which only serves to make him flush deeper.

 

“Jon…”

 

“Yes, Martin?”

 

Martin curses at the curve of his eyebrow; he knows he won’t be able to resist whatever comes next, and sure enough Jon presses himself a little further into Martin’s chest before asking, the smugness on his face far too obvious,

 

“Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

 

Martin can feel Jon’s free hand close around his arm, grip the fuzzy fabric of his sweater. He  _ also _ can feel the urge to answer him, immediately, comprehensively, an urge that feels familiar, though for the life of him he can’t imagine why.

 

“Er--” he says, but that’s all he gets out before Jon’s kissing him, again, and he winds up mumbling the rest of his answer against his lips. He doubts Jon got any of it. He figures that if it’s really all that important, Jon will ask him again, later, probably with less mouth to mouth. Or not. Martin can’t find it in himself to mind.

 

The nagging feeling’s back, though, and he frowns. Pauses, places one hand gently on Jon’s chest to give himself some breathing room. Shakes his head a bit to clear his mind. He expects some sort of gentle inquiry, some less loaded questions aimed his way, but Jon… Jon doesn’t seem to notice, actually, and that bothers Martin more than it should. His arms are around his neck, now, and from the position they’re in, he’s actually seated so he looks down into Martin’s eyes, and the nagging feeling intensifies when Martin realizes just how disorientating this is. Something’s… wrong, though he can’t pinpoint what. 

 

It’s just when he opens his mouth to ask if Jon feels it, too, that the glow from the computer screen behind them pulses, sending a wash of light skittering over Jon’s cheekbones, and his thoughts scatter as Jon leans in to kiss him again. His mouth is warm, and sure against his, and Martin lets him take over the kiss as he moves the hand on his chest up to cup his face, uses his thumb to trace the path of the light across his skin until it comes to a rest just above their mouths. Jon makes a soft sound that sends twinges through Martin’s stomach as his thumb drags down over his lips even as they break apart; Martin’s heart in the meantime is doing some singing of its own; and all the while the nagging has intensified into a bottomless pit of tension pooling in the space that ought to host Martin’s abdomen.

 

“Jon--” he says, “wait,” and the pit is expanding, now, as Jon’s fingers curl into the back of his fuzzy, fuzzy sweater; he doesn’t seem to be able to hear him, and the pit coalesces into a sharp stab of cold realization as he remembers he doesn’t own any sweaters, doesn’t own anything that could ever feel this soft;  _ you are a clone, and this is your boss, and-- _

 

“Martin?” asks the Jon on his lap, and he can’t bring himself to look him in the eye,

 

“Martin?” asks what must be a dream-Jon, and Martin’s hands still against his sides even as his voice begins to blur,

 

“Martin?” asks the same voice, but sharper, as Martin jolts awake. “Are you alright?”

 

It takes a lot of blinking against the sudden brightness before Martin-7’s properly able to process where and when he is. He’s in the usual consultation room, yes-- and the screens are back to their usual blue instead of the sickly yellow of the dream-- but Jon is decidedly not in his lap, which, he figures, feeling more than a bit foolish, and the slightest bit sick, is just as it should be. 

 

He realizes with a start that Jon’s still staring at him.

 

“Er-- yes. Yes, I’m fine. Sorry, am I…? Are you…?”

 

He looks around a second time, a bit more carefully. The screens are turned on, but there’s no sign of an old brief, or a set of reports, and it takes a couple of seconds of sleep-tinged yawning to realize there’s a third voice in the background-- or, well, as it becomes clearer-- a recording of some sort on, piping a slightly younger-sounding version of Jon’s voice into the room.

 

_ “--cannot afford to compromise my work for the sake of--” _ is all he’s able to make out before the recording is abruptly switched off, and he blinks again as his brain frantically tries to keep up with the changing pace.

 

“You’re not interrupting, but are you quite sure you’re fine?”

 

“Uh.” The last thing Martin wants to do is get into his dream (Memory? Memory-dream? He doesn’t have the time or energy to even begin unpacking any of this) in  _ any _ sort of detail. “Yeah. Just-- tired, I guess. Didn’t get my usual thirty-six hours of sleep this weekend; you know how it is.”

 

Jon squints at him.

 

“What are you doing here anyway-- I mean, I didn’t hear you come in....”

 

“That’s exactly why I’ve been worried,” Jon says, somewhat dryly. “I’ve been here for at least an hour, and the computer certainly announced the door procedures as usual.”

 

<ANNOUNCEMENTS LOGGED>

 

“Good old G182BW,” Martin says, the words from his dream echoing around his head. He looks up to find Jon looking strangely at him.

 

“That’s not-- Where did you get that?”

 

Immediately, Martin can tell something’s different. Jon may be trying to sound amused, unconcerned, but there’s a tightness to his voice that makes him feel he’s accidentally stumbled across something, and, well, he’s feeling encouraged, these days, not to leave well enough alone.

 

“That’s the computer system, right?” he says, and Jon flinches, like he’s about to be punched.

 

“ _ No, _ ” says Jon with a vehemence that makes Martin feel like  _ he _ ought to be the one flinching, and then, as if he’s realized the unprecedented ferocity of his voice, he continues, “It was the name of the old system, though I can’t imagine how you’ve come across the name in the first place. Did Elias tell you?”

 

Martin stays silent. 

 

Jon hesitates, giving Martin the impression that he’s debating doing something either entirely unpleasant (though for who, he’s unsure) or incredibly idiotic, if the stimulant patch scenario was anything to go off from. He takes a step towards Martin, and Martin’s breath hitches-- should he run? Before he can quite process what’s happening in time to make a decision, Jon’s right in front of him, and Martin hates that as much as he waits in nervous anticipation of what’s about to happen next, his body seems to be obeying some deeper subconscious signal that’s telling him that this is exactly what he wants, that if he’s patient and plays his cards just right he can have Jon back on his lap, only this time for  _ real _ .

 

Is that even what he wants?

 

It doesn’t matter, because Jon’s right by him, now, staring down at him in his chair, and it takes everything Martin has to keep from comparing it to his dream (memory? What  _ was _ going on there??) especially when that unreadable expression overtakes his face again.

 

“Martin,” he says, and his voice has changed somewhat; it’s not quite a whisper but it’s definitely raspier, and Martin’s not sure if that’s due to the situation or his exhaustion or his own layering of the dream, “Do you trust me?”

 

Martin stares.

 

“Um. I guess?”

 

He’s cut off before he can ask  _ why _ .

 

“Do you  _ really _ trust me; I can’t take a wishy-washy answer on this.”

 

Martin thinks about it. On one hand, he’d had no idea what Jon had been about to do or say, and had panicked accordingly. On the other… Jon’s been accommodating so far, and has promised on at least two separate occasions now to keep Martin from being recycled, and he’d barged in on Elias’s interrogation at just the right time, and… there’s something going on with him, and this Martin  _ Blackwood _ inside his head, that he just can’t afford to ignore. If he says no now… at best, he’s transferred, probably, and at worst he’s recycled. Either way, his chances of learning anything more about either of them tank significantly, especially when he considers there’s no guarantee he’ll be able to see any more of the station while he’s transferred-- he might merely wake up some day and find himself in a near-identical room with a different consultant. And… at the end of the day… Martin thinks he  _ does _ trust him, of the nice drinks and late-night laughter, at least as much as he can trust anyone here besides himself.

 

“...Yes,” he says finally, and he thinks he might be imagining it, but Jon seems to relax a little. 

 

He bends a little, then, and places a hand on Martin’s shoulder, and if Martin’s heart rate immediately elevates, and his pupils dilate a bit more than strictly normal, under the bright lights, then, well, he just hopes Jon doesn’t notice.

 

“Can I trust  _ you? _ ” he asks, and Martin’s mind whirls.  _ Where is he going with this? _

 

“Uh. Yes-- Yes!” he emphasizes hastily, unwilling to let whatever this opportunity is go to waste.

 

Jon squints at him again, and Martin can see the frantic calculations whizzing back and forth behind his eyes.

 

“Okay,” he says finally, “Right. That’s-- That’s good to know.”

 

He takes his hand off of his shoulder. Martin pretends that he doesn’t miss the warmth in favor of asking,

 

“Jon?”

 

Jon’s already turned away and has returned to staring up at the screens. 

 

“Jon, listen, what was that about?--”

 

He falls silent as Jon blinks, and all of a sudden every screen in the room is covered in-- in-- Martin’s not even sure  _ what _ it is, only that all of it is entirely incomprehensible; every picture looking inherently  _ wrong _ , every string of text unreadable.

 

“Martin,” he says evenly, without turning around. “Could you please turn off the lights?”


	12. discontinued

_ Statement of J. Sims, Planetary Designer, Lower Level - Citizen Employee #12043133 _

 

_ Case #1630512 _

 

Statement of Jonathan Sims, Lower Level--  _ Upper Level _ Planetary Designer for Stellar Firma.

 

Elias just informed me yesterday that I, along with everyone in our batch, got approved for promotion at the end of this cycle. He was rather flippant about it, to be quite honest--  told me to consider it an early birthday present, and added something about how I would’ve known if I had attended the traditional end-of-year gala, where presumably it was announced-- but between the Intergalactic Space Ball and whatever Tim and Sasha are planning, I rather think I’ve made enough social commitments for one fiscal quarter. 

 

While I am pleased about the promotion, I do wonder whether it’s part of some ruse by Elias implemented in order to distract me from my still pending application to join Gertrude Robinson’s team. I know, I know; this sounds far too manipulative for Elias, I agree-- the man sounds like he’d build you a to-scale copy of Senator Windala’s moon if you asked nicely enough-- but for some reason I can’t help but wonder…

 

No. I- I can’t keep throwing my suspicions where they’re not needed, not after what happened with Martin.

 

I’ve been looking for him all week, trying to catch him alone so I can properly apologize for my-- for everything, but he seems to be avoiding me-- and for good reason, I suppose. I, I’m not really a  _ social _ person, per say, but I swear I’ve scoured half the station in attempts to find him. I assume this means he just doesn’t want to be found.

 

I spoke to Tim and Sasha, but they don’t seem to have noticed anything off about him, any change in his mood or personality, so I think it’s safe to say that it’s me in particular he doesn’t want to see. 

 

Can’t begrudge him that.

 

I wonder if he’ll show up today, or if he’s already requested a transfer to some other designer. Again, I can’t say I blame him, but… I guess, somewhere beneath the distrust and paranoia, I’d rather liked having him around. Ridiculous, I know; I’ve only had his company for three weeks, but I guess-- Sasha was right. He does grow on you.

 

Just a bit, though; I’m not about to let some misplaced sentimentality get in the way of my output, especially not directly after a promotion, even if it does leave a bit of a bitter taste in my mouth. I’ve got a brief to do, whether Martin shows up or not.

 

[...]

 

Alright, that’s ten past; I’d better get started. Pull up the brief, please.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Releasing brief.” END SOURCE]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 2:  **TUBE1 -- [ENGAGED]** END SOURCE]

 

Let’s see…

 

Of course. Another bloodsports planet. Nice to see that karma is a force still well and alive among the throes of elite capitalism; hail the Board.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Door opening.” END SOURCE]

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 3:  **CITIZEN EMPLOYEE #11273123 :: MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Sorry I’m late.”]

 

Martin? 

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 1:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Door closing.” END SOURCE]

 

What’s this?

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** Your tea. Right, so, what have we got today--]

 

Martin, listen, I am so sorry for--

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** It’s fine.]

 

No, but really--

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** I said it’s  _ fine _ .]

 

But it  _ can’t _ be fine; if I had known--

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** Jon, please, just-- stop.  _ Obviously _ , it’s not fine, but you bringing it up isn’t doing anything about it. I appreciate the apology, but please-- just stop.]

 

I’m sorry.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** Thank you.]

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** And if you really want to make it up to me, you could always buy the tea next time?]

 

Oh. Oh! Of course; how do you take yours--?

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** Brief now, Jon. Tea later.]

 

Right. Right. Well, it’s a bloodspo--

 

<SYSTEM PLAYBACK ERROR>

 

<ATTEMPTING TO RESTORE RECORDING>

 

<PLEASE HOLD>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<EXITING RECORDING>

 

<SHUTTING DOWN LOG SYSTEM>

 

<WOULD YOU LIKE TO RELAUNCH THE PROGRAM?>

 

<OVERRIDING RESPONSE>

 

<SHUTTING DOWN PROGRAM>

 

<PLEASE HOLD>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<HOLD…>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

“Oh come on, come on; this  _ has  _ to work…”

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<SYSTEM SHUTDOWN IMMINENT>

 

“No, no, no, no, no;  _ please _ .”

 

<PLEASE HOLD>

 

“I’ve been holding long enough, you bloody--”

 

<SYSTEM SHUTDOWN PAUSED>

 

<AWAITING FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS>

 

“Uh-- finish?”

 

<PROCESSING RESTORED DATA>

 

<SYSTEM SHUTDOWN CANCELLED>

 

<LAUNCHING PROGRAM>

 

<OPENING LOGS>

 

<PARSING…>

 

<PARSING…>

 

<PARSING…>

 

<PLAYING RECORDING>

 

\--tatement of Jonathan Sims, Upper Level Planetary Designer--

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 1:  **CITIZEN EMPLOYEE #11273123 :: MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Oh, come on, Jon; that can wait.”]

 

_ \--Upper _ Level Planetary Designer for Stellar Firma.

 

No, it can’t wait, Martin, not when we’re in the office.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 2:  **SYSTEM G182BW:** “Insistence detected. Security alerted.” END SOURCE]

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** _Technically,_ we’re here after hours.]

 

Only because  _ someone _ was too distracting when we were actually  _ on _ the clock.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** We finished the planet either way.]

 

Doesn’t hurt to get a head start on tomorrow’s work.

 

[NON-VERBAL SOUND DETECTED: Identified as: Laughter]

 

<RECORDING PAUSED>

 

“This isn’t what… Hold on.”

 

<SKIPPING…>

 

<SKIPPING…>

 

<RECORDING RESUMES>

 

Hi, Jon. I know you’re asleep right now, so I thought I’d record this little message for you right now, so you won’t be too confused when--

 

<SKIPPING…>

 

<ERROR>

 

<REROUTING…>

 

<ACCESS MODULATED>

 

<SYSTEM CONFUSED>

 

“Hello?”

 

<SYSTEM CONFUSED>

 

<HOST CONFUSED>

 

<HOST UNRESPONSIVE>

 

“Yes, that’s the  _ point! _ >

 

<HOST UNRESPONSIVE>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<SYSTEM RESOLVED?>

 

<RECYCLING>

 

<RECYCL!NG>

 

<RECORDING RESUMING>

 

<REC0RDING REUMSUMMESSSSS>

 

[SOURCE2???  :  **I KNOW HOW TO D@NCE!2]]** [][]

 

[]

 

//

[=

 

Statement OF/\\\\\\\\\\\\\

 

[p;[;’.[00====-4[3 0000000000000000011111111111111111111111111111111101010101010

 

;p.;.;;;;;;;;;;;

 

‘;[p-;[;[l

 

“Um?!”

 

<RECORDING… RECORDING… TIRED>

 

vigiloaudioopperiorv!g!loaud!00pper!0rvigihklfjioiadijfuppOpperijgrobsinson18181n18181818181

181818181818181818181818181818181818181881818181818818181818181881818181818architect **dis** cont!nue333eed

 

[[noOw I  **lay m3** d0wn to Sleep..,,,,, !![[[ SYTEM ERROR 12299111….34ol[p;p;p[l`[lpl[```

 

<SYSTEM STRUGGLING>

  
_ St4i134-otkmnet  en d _ **_s?_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter today, for reasons both watsonian and doylist.  
> there's a possible chance at another chapter getting uploaded either tonight or tomorrow! we'll see :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm terribly sorry for the confusion that came out of naming the last chapter 'discontinued!' this fic is, at the current moment, very much still active :)

Martin blinks, his eyes pressing shut then flicking open at an increasingly fast rate as his brain tries to understand what he’s seeing in front of him. What he’s in the  _ middle _ of. It reminds him faintly of the accidental strobe light Jon had turned on over the weekend; and yet somehow it’s also nothing like that at all. Everything is everywhere and everything is nowhere, all at once. His head hurts. The sky is bright. No, the ceiling is bright. There are bright spots all around, dotting his vision, unless of course those are numbers, and he’s just lost the ability to process them. Color seems more a courtesy than an actual concept. That feels important. He needs to sit down, or would need to if he wasn’t already, he remembers. Nothing his eyes are seeing is quite making sense, and yet the one thing he is distinctly sure of is that neither he nor Jon have left the room.

 

“Jon?” he tries for, weakly, but he can’t tell if the word has actually left his mouth.

 

“...Good Lord,” he hears, but vaguely, as if the words are coming at him from underwater. They bounce around his brain like he’s made of rubber, not bone-- (and, really,  _ is _ he made of bone? Would Stellar Firma waste what surely must be precious resources on the staff, or-- no, Martin, not the time--)

 

“...Martin,” he hears again. “Martin….. to me….didn’t expect it to affect you this badly. Martin, can you hear me?”

 

“Uh.”

 

“...’ll take that as a yes. Just focus on my voice.”

 

This is a pleasant direction, so Martin is easily able to follow it.

 

“That’s it; come on;” and then, in a lower voice, one nearly a mutter, and so low Martin has to strain to make out the words; “This is my fault, I should have compensated for the clone factor;  _ honestly, _ Jon, what were you thinking; of  _ course- _ ”

 

“Jon?”

 

Jon cuts himself off abruptly. Martin waits for him to continue. The world around him has not yet resolved itself into anything resembling sense, so at least he has the surety of knowing he probably isn’t losing his mind. Maybe he’s dying?

 

The thought is more sobering than he’d have thought, but a faint pinprick of reassurance emerges when he thinks about Jon. He’d sounded concerned, and besides, only mere moments ago he’d been asking Martin if he trusted him, had sounded like he genuinely cared about the answer. To secure an answer in the affirmative only to break that trust seems cruel, and, more importantly, unlike Jon.

 

“Jon… what?”

 

Thankfully, Jon picks up on what he’s asking instantly.

 

“I’ll explain in a moment. Can you sit up?”

 

Martin blinks. He hadn’t even realized he’d been on the floor; he suspects he’ll feel the bruises from the fall the next day. If he survives that long. 

 

He manages to raise himself to a seated position, though he makes the executive decision to stay on the floor, and looks up only to find Jon rubbing at his chin in a gesture that, if he didn’t know any better, almost seems  _ anxious _ . 

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yes-- no-- yes, I’m-- I’m used to this. The screens don’t bother me much anymore.”

 

“So we’re still in the office…?”

 

“I-- Yes. Yes, we are. I’ve just… arranged things, so that we can… talk.”

 

Martin eyes the ceiling suspiciously, then immediately regrets it in the form of another throb of pain doing its best to split open his skull.

 

“About…?”

 

Jon blows out a large breath, cheeks puffed as if he’s thirteen, not thirty ( _ How does he know that? _ )

 

“Well. I’ve been thinking-- since Elias’s little intervention--”

 

“I didn’t  _ touch _ those files,” Martin says, more than a little hotly, because if he’s this close to having a migraine just so Jon can accuse him of snooping, he has a rather nice arsenal of words he’s been building in his spare time that he’s been dying to use.

 

Jon stares at him for a moment as if he’s turned into a moon, then shakes his head.

 

“What-- You know what; I’m not even going to ask. Just. Hear me out.” He sighs. “You know, of course, that you are not the first clone I have… worked with.”

 

“Well, yeah. I’m Martin-7, not Martin-The-First-Of-His-Kind.”

 

Jon winces.

 

“That, That’s right. But, of course, that also means that there was, once, a-- how did you put it?-- Martin-The-First.”

 

“Okay…”

 

“Now, most clones developed by Stellar Firma are created with the end goal of being as efficient as possible. This means, usually, that, for example, though personality matrices can seem very complex on the surface, they don’t typically go all that deep. Or, to take another example, clones are usually rather plain-looking-- and this isn’t an insult; I mean this quite literally. Since everything that goes in a clone both must be able to and probably will get recycled eventually, it would be rather… irresponsible of Stellar Firma to waste resources, time, and personnel on-- detail.”

 

He looks meaningfully at Martin, as if this is supposed to provoke some reaction or revelation in him. It doesn’t.

 

When Jon continues, his voice is a little gentler.

 

“What I’m trying to say, Martin, is that, unless, for example, a clone was specifically designed to look a certain way, to, to  _ emulate _ something specific, there would be no need for things like-- curly hair.”

 

Martin’s hand automatically rises to his head, fingers immediately parsing hair that is very clearly curled. They tighten around a particularly thick strand, winding the hair around and around as his breathing shifts, subtly. His next words come out as somewhat of a croak.

 

“What are you saying?”

 

Jon bites his lip.

 

“Your official name might be Martin-7, but you are not the seventh Martin to work in this room. You’re the eighth. And the original Martin-- Martin-0, let’s call him-- he wasn’t exactly… a clone.”

 

There’s a long silence as Martin processes this information. It’s funny, he thinks; he’s not as surprised as he expects he ought to be. If anything, he feels… validated. All those flashes of knowledge, those bits of information and emotion that he’d been  _ sure _ wasn’t his-- this is a sort of confirmation of all that. It’s quite relieving, actually, though he feels a bit guilty for thinking it.

 

“Who was he? What did he do?”

 

“He outranked me, actually,” Jon admits, which is not technically an answer to either of Martin’s questions, but Martin is willing to consider that maybe he’s just embarrassed about the whole thing.

 

“What happened to him?” he asks instead, because he has a sinking feeling he knows the answer.

 

Jon is silent for a moment, before inhaling as if to steady himself, except that would be ridiculous, because-- because--

 

He doesn’t know. He just doesn’t like thinking of Jon in terms of other people, he tries to justify. Except Tim and Sasha, who seem like lovely people from what Jon’s said, as much as anyone can be lovely within walls owned by Stellar Firma;  _ Hail the Board, _ Martin thinks quickly, just in case.

 

Maybe he just doesn’t like seeing Jon this close to anything resembling  _ upset, _ which is dangerous territory for him to be entering, considering-- and his cheeks heat as he remembers it-- considering the very vivid memories he’s been experiencing about him lately.

 

And maybe, if he’s honest, it might also have something to do with the fact that now he has proof that said memory  _ was _ a memory, which means that the person  _ in _ the memory must have been this Martin-0; this, he suspects, Martin  _ Blackwood _ ; which means that Jon must have once-- must have felt-- must have cared about him very much. Which means, if this is rubbing him the wrong way-- well, if what he’d been considering before had been dangerous, then this is as close to emotionally slurrying himself as he can get.

 

He’d rather just not think about it at all.

 

“He’s dead,” Jon says, pulling Martin sharply back down to space, and he feels another twinge of guilt. “Which is why you, and your… line exist at all.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says, because he  _ is,  _ truly.

 

“What for?” 

 

“Um. Well. You sound like you knew him?”

 

“I did. Quite well.” A pause. “But that was rather a while ago.”

 

“Well, what was he like? He must have been important, if they made seven clones of him.”

 

Jon makes a noise that sounds rather like he’s gritting his teeth and doing his best not to spit his words out at the same time.

 

“He got seven clones made of him, Martin, because Stellar Firma decided, after his death, that they wanted to replace the Architect’s team--  _ my _ team-- with clones, because, and I quote, ‘they’re more reliable, more expendable, and we don’t have to pay them.’”

 

Martin huffs.

 

“Well, then why don’t they just replace everyone with clones; they might like that better.”

 

Jon snorts besides himself.

 

“You ought to take that up with the Board.”

 

“Maybe I will.”

 

At that, Jon’s expression falls again. 

 

“No. You won’t.”

  
There’s another uncomfortable silence, and then Jon says,

 

“Besides, I have a suspicion that that wasn’t-- the full story. Which brings me to why I’ve gone--” he waves his hands, indicating the seizure walls-- “to all this trouble. I’m being watched.”

 

The air seems to drop ten degrees. Martin shivers. Jon continues,

 

“Which means you are, too, though for no fault of your own. Elias… Well, you’ve met him. I am quite aware that you don’t have much else to go off of, so trust me when I say that that is  _ not _ how a line manager is meant to act.”

 

“Don’t worry; I believe you,” comes his answering mumble.

 

“Good. We don’t have much time like this; I can’t keep this up forever.”

 

“How  _ are _ you doing… well, whatever you’re doing?”

 

He’s curious despite himself; a skill like this could come in handy further down the line, and if Jon’s willing to teach him…

 

But Jon shakes his head.

 

“It’s rather complicated, and like I said, time is short. What  _ I _ want to make sure you’re aware of is how interested Elias is in you.”

 

“What?”

 

“I told you I’ve had six other Martin-line clones; he’s never shown half as much interest in all of them combined as he has in you-- I mean, he came to see you personally. He hasn’t paid a visit to this wing unprompted in a very,  _ very _ long time. Not even for me.”

 

“Well--”

 

“I think he sees something of Martin B-- Martin-0 in you. And to be quite honest, I have as well; something must have gone wrong during your development--  _ not _ that I find that fact bad,” he adds hastily.

 

“You just-- remind me of him. And you shouldn’t, according to all the relevant rules and potentially disastrous scenarios-- believe me, I’ve checked-- so we’re just going to have to hope that you are, in fact, not a worst-case scenario.”

 

“...And?”

 

Jon takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders like he’s bracing against a physical attack. For the first time, Martin notices how tired he is, how the dark and wide the circles under his eyes reach, the physical effects of what all this strain must be taking out on him.  _ Stop, _ he wants to say,  _ Sit down and rest, and I’ll get you some of that tea stuff you’re always bringing me. It could work, if you ordered me to do it. They’d let me leave, then.  _ _   
_ Instead, he stays silent and waits for Jon to continue with whatever is so difficult for him to say.

 

“I told you Martin-- the zeroeth-- was dead, and that is true. But… Stellar Firma is an enormous corporation, and news isn’t allowed to travel fast, especially when it concerns the employee mortality rate.” He takes another, distinctly shuddering breath. “Which means--”

 

“It means not many people know he’s dead.”

 

“It means,” Jon says in agreement, “that if I’m right, and I suspect that I am, then the lowest-ranking employee who’s even aware he died is me. Well. With the exception of you, I suppose.”

 

“But-- like you said, we’re such a large company,  _ surely _ someone else must have noticed he was gone?”

 

“Transfers are common enough.”

 

Martin sits with  _ that _ for a second. There’s something nagging at him, something that prickles up and down his spine and tugs at his shoulder and tells him that Jon is sharing all of this for a reason. Even if he tries to listen to that part of himself, though-- he just can’t for the life of him figure out what it might be. So, in what is quickly becoming true Martin fashion (the longer he’s been spending around Jon, the more inquisitive he’s finding himself,) he asks.

 

Jon has the grace to look sheepish.

 

“When Martin-- the original-- was still alive, I… occasionally, er, uh, assisted him with some things he was looking into. Since his death, I-- I’ve always wanted to follow up, but I could never get the permissions he’d had, and without those, well-- I was going nowhere. But with you--”

 

Martin interrupts.

 

“It won’t work.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“I’ve tried using the computers systems here; everything either doesn’t let me in, or it crashes down with a bunch of nonsense errors. There’s no way I’ll be able to fake my way into-- into-- why are you smiling?”

 

“Martin, if it was computers I needed to get around, I’d have long had what I needed, trust me. No, I need you, if you’re willing, to be the analog version of a Trojan horse.”

 

Something in Martin’s brain is informing him that the Trojan Horse started off analog long before he came to be, but he squashes it aside in favor of staring at Jon with an expression that he hopes communicates how unequivocally apprehensive he is.

 

“Of course, no one would fall for you as you are; we’d have to spruce you up a bit, in secret, get you looking and sounding more upper-levels, but that, I think we can manage-- you’ve proven yourself a fast learner thus far.”

 

Martin does his best to intensify his hopefully domineering silence. Jon, however, does not have the good etiquette to address it.

 

“I was thinking, what with what you’d said the other night, about parties-- they might be a good place to start, relatively low-risk and all that.”

 

There are now bells ringing in Martin’s mind. He is unsure whether they’re more of the wedding or the alarm sort.

 

“So, Martin, will you do me the honour of accompanying me to the Stellar Firma Limited Annual Intergalactic Space Ball?”

 

_ What. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i released the first installment of a companion piece to this story, called [ 'maybe the ground is firmer on this side of things.'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19083985/chapters/45337750) it is essentially a compilation of bonus content, that i will release as i create it/as it makes sense to be released.
> 
> the first piece of bonus content, out now, is a rewrite of one of the final scenes in chapter 5, where jon collapses from overwork, now from jon's own point of view.
> 
> let me know if you like the bonus content! i'll make more if it's something you all are liking.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this took so long! i'll try to be quicker on the updating :) this chapter is a bit longer than usual, though, because i felt like the end bit needed to be in this chapter as opposed to being pushed to two chapters ahead!

_What._

 

It takes a moment for Martin to regain his metaphorical balance and fire back in confusion:

 

“So you’re telling me you want to James Bond our way through the most notoriously security-tight, ruthless corporation in the universe, and you want me, a disposable clone with a disposable life, to say yes?”

 

Jon, to his disappointment, does not recoil in surprise, or make any moves to reassure him. Instead, he cocks his head and pushes his chin forward a little, as if indicating in Martin’s direction.

 

“And who’s been telling you about James Bond?”

 

There’s a small smile playing across his lips.

 

Martin prickles with heat.

 

“The computer doesn’t always shut me out right away,” he admits, avoiding Jon’s eyes. “Picked up a few things.”

 

Jon _hms_ , a noncommittal noise if Martin’s ever heard one, and turns to one of the disjointed screens. He begins to wave his fingers around in a convoluted dance of selection screen navigation, muttering something every so often-- the actual input commands, Martin assumes. In a matter of moments, the screen is cleared, and looks as good as new.

 

“We’ll be found out,” he presses, “In a matter of days. Hours. _Seconds._ ”

 

“Give me _some_ credit, Martin; I’ve had quite the long while to think about this.”

 

“How are we going to pull it off, then?”

 

It’s not so much a question as it is a _demand_ for an explanation. Jon just shakes his head, though the corner of his mouth still tugs upwards.

 

“I need you to trust me. If you agree to do this, to help, then I’ll explain pretty much anything you want to know.  But if you don’t want any part in this, just let me know, and we can go back to pretending this is a normal clone-designer relationship, at least until Elias decides he’s had enough watching from the sidelines.”

 

There’s a bite to his words, one that Martin suspects might even be not wholly intentional, but it’s not that that finally convinces him to give in and agree. No, it’s the promise of more answers that’s got him hooked, the chance to finally make some headway at reconciling the madness in his head with… well, the equally confusing world he’s found himself in.

 

“Fine,” he says. It’s enough.

 

Something, some tense anticipation that had been hovering in the background up until that moment, drops. Jon exhales, and all of a sudden he looks that much more tired.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You don’t need to do that,” Martin mumbles. His shoulders slump forward of their own volition, and he catches his chin in his hands. His eyes fall to the floor, to the stiff panels brushed with a sheen so reflective that he can catch a distorted version of his and Jon’s reflections staring back up at him.

 

Jon presses something else on one of the screens and drops to the floor beside him, crossing his legs and mirroring Martin’s pose. He keeps his eyes patiently fixed on him, ceding the floor for his questions.

 

The problem is, Martin doesn’t know where to start. Does he keep pressing about the plan, in the hopes that whatever Jon has in mind doesn’t scare him so badly he’ll be tempted to retract his promise on the spot? Should he dig more into Stellar Firma itself, see if there’s a way he can get Jon to drop a few important details in this moment of weakness-- not that he knows what he’ll do with any of the information; he just feels it might-- be important? Someday? Or should he just take a flying leap and ask about Martin Blackwood? He doesn’t want to, not really; Jon’s proven himself to be honorable enough, and despite what he might think, Martin _does_ trust him as he promised, but, still, the business of M. Blackwood feels important and personal enough that, for the time being, he wants to keep it to himself. Jon’s done fine this long without Martin throwing him bones.

 

Besides, as terrible as it sounds, it might be handy to have information that only he knows; he hadn’t been lying when he’d told Jon he’d come across some James Bond films (#426: _Arm and a Leg (and Twelve More Clones,)_ #813: _Lightning Always Strikes the Same Planet Twice (So Pay Attention When Designing,)_ and a really ancient hit-- #128: _Citizen ID: 007,)_ and there always seemed to be a moment when the stalwart hero, clad in their Stellar Firma-provided jumpsuit, trademark stripe of black down the side, pulled some piece of information or the other out of their back pocket-- metaphorical, of course, since Stellar Firma jumpsuits don’t come with pockets-- and used it to threaten or blackmail or cajole their captor into letting them go. Martin can’t really see himself blackmailing anyone in the near future, but, well. At the very least it gives him a sense that he’s _doing_ something for himself, and only himself.

 

In the end, he decides to take the easy route and only inquire about his immediate concerns.

 

“So… the plan?”

 

Jon laughs, soft enough to raise the hairs on the back of Martin’s neck.

 

“Where to start?

 

“The beginning?” At Jon’s face, he hurriedly adds, “You were going to tell me how I can leave the room?”

 

_In for a penny, in for a pound._

 

“Fair enough. We’re lucky, to start.”

 

Martin squints in his direction.

 

“The Martins-- god, that sounds strange to say out loud-- the Martins have always been a higher tier line-- see the red on your jumpsuit?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“If you were to pull up your employee profile in the system, you’d find it there as well. It signifies your clearance level-- and where clones are concerned, there’s a lower tier and a higher tier. For some inexplicable reason, every Martin clone has been placed at the higher.”

 

“Well, I mean, if they-- we-- are all based off of, you know, a real person, maybe it’s some sort of-- ethics thing?”

 

When Jon laughs this time, it’s low and hollow.

 

“I don’t much think that’s their style.”

 

He glances upwards after he says it, as if afraid a storm of knives is about to descend upon them-- but nothing happens. He doesn’t hail the Board. Martin doesn’t point it out to him.

 

Jon continues:

 

“In any case, that higher status is going to be an asset for us. According to Stellar Firma policy--” and his voice shifts, adopting a tone that implies he’s reciting this word for word from something he’s long memorized-- “Clones with Vermilion status can access certain restricted parts of the station for the purpose of running specific errands to assist with your daily tasks. They can then be further cleared for access into higher-tier areas, as long as the Employee applying has clearance for those areas themselves. It is the responsibility of the Employee to monitor the Clone, and any reparations will be exacted through the account of the Employee, and so on and so forth; I’m sure you can guess the rest. Essentially, you can leave.”

 

Martin stares. Jon lets his gaze flicker up to his face, fixes on the slowly dawning realization there.

 

“What?”

 

Martin takes a moment before answering, lets the frustration and anger properly build up before--

 

“I can _leave?_ ”

 

“Well, under certain specific guidelines, and you’d have to come back and--”

 

He interrupts. “And you hadn’t once let me all this time?!”

 

“Oh, I mean--”

 

“Leaving me alone in the dark for hours upon hours at a time, with nothing to distract myself with, even?”

 

“... The guidelines are _very_ specific, I wouldn’t have been able to--”

 

“Oh, come off it; you’re the _Architect,_ and besides all that, you’ve just shown me all your fancy computer tricks. If anyone could have managed it, I’m willing to bet on you.”

 

“I-- Well-- I’m sorry.”

 

Jon folds in onto himself, settling his hands into his lap and hunching his shoulders. It makes him look smaller, and the turn of his mouth indicates sheepishness, which isn’t enough, but Martin’s all too aware that even having this conversation is a privilege most other Stellar Firma clones wouldn’t survive. So, instead of arguing further and plunging the both of them into a fight he can’t afford-- or accept an apology he rather feels strongly about at the moment-- (he remembers, with another rush of annoyance, how Jon had first spoken to him, when he’d just finished being born)-- he abruptly changes tack, glossing over the situation in favor of poking again-- though, James Bond wouldn’t have left it at that, he thinks somewhat murderously.

 

“Right, well, what next?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“There must be other things we have to do if you want me impersonating Martin--” he cuts off quickly; he’d been about to say _Blackwood--_ “... the original,” he finishes, running out of steam.

 

Jon eyes him warily.

 

“Yes; we’ll have to get you a new jumpsuit with the appropriate clearance colors, and there are a few things I’ll have to change in the system by hand, but most of the work will probably just be-- mannerisms. Word choice, strengths, weaknesses, who you should know and how you should address them, that sort of thing.”

 

“Like _The Princess Diaries_.”

 

“What?”

 

“ _The Princess--_ ”

 

“No, no; I know what they are; how do _you_ know about them?”

 

“I got bored!”

 

“Did you watch them?’

 

“All forty-eight. And the behind-the-scenes features. And nearly all the related interviews. Did you know Anne Hathaway is the only actor to appear in all of the films?”

 

Jon rubs his temples.

 

“Martin, a little urgency? We’ve got maybe five minutes before this setup collapses, and there are still more than a few details to iron out.”

 

“Fine, then. What else is there?”

 

“Only that we’re going to have to figure out a way to do this discreetly. I can’t keep holding the eyes and ears off like this, not if we want to avoid drawing attention to ourselves. But at the same time...”

 

“It would be risky to just do it in plain sight?”

 

“Yes,” Jon agrees. “Maybe if I wasn’t the Architect, if Elias wasn’t already keeping such a close eye on us both… But we don’t have those luxuries.”

 

Martin saves the bit about Elias keeping an eye on _Jon_ as well as himself for later ruminations, and thinks about the problem at hand. His eyes scan the room-- it’s all he knows after all, and at this point he’s willing to bet he knows it at least as well as Jon, if not better-- looking for something, anything that could help. _Here_ is the smooth surface of the workspace, covered in papers as usual, _there_ is the controls box that Jon had so sharply warned him off of, _over there_ is the wall where Martin had crashed flying into Jon-- no, not the time, Martin, not the time (not that that helps control the blushing, thank Board Jon isn’t looking)-- and-- wait. The controls box. His mind flashes back to the first day, to light switches, and strange labels, and ROLEPLAY HOLOVISION ACTIVATED.

 

He thinks he can guess, now, why Jon hadn’t wanted it on. He’s sure that if he combs through the memories that aren’t his enough, he can confirm his suspicions.

 

But no time.

 

“Roleplay,” he says, and Jon’s eyes slide over to his face from where he’d been sitting, musing.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“The holovision. From the first day.”

 

“Those sessions are recorded,” Jon says, but there’s the hint of a question in his voice, an unspoken _go on_.

 

“So? The whole point is that it’s not real.” He’s fairly sure about this; he’s read about the holovision since that first day in. The blessings of the (near-always defunct) computer system. “We could say anything, _do_ anything in there, and as long as we keep mixing it up, no one’s going to take too close of a glance. Most that could happen is that, you know, you’ll look a bit sad.”

 

“Ah yes, every Architect’s dream. You’re doing a great job of making this sound appealing.”

 

Martin shrugs.

 

“It’s not my fault you knew him as well as you did.”

 

And, okay, maybe that was a little uncalled for, because he sees the way Jon snaps his spine into place, clearly holding himself back from flinching, and maybe Martin feels a little bit bad, but he thinks it’s a little too late to take it back now.

 

Besides, there’s little spark in Jon’s eye, one that says what Martin’s been saying is making sense, and he feels a little thrill of victory when Jon eventually admits it’s the closest thing to a good plan they have.

 

\--

 

When Jon is gone, with the hastily plastered promise that he’ll ‘sort out the leaving permissions as soon as he can, really, I promise,’ Martin turns back to the computer. He squints at it for a moment, because he knows for sure now that, in some shape or form, Stellar Firma is watching, has probably seen the results of all his searches thus far. If he’s lucky, they’ll assume it’s Jon that’s been using the thing, although he’s not sure how strongly that theory will hold up against testimony as to the actual contents of the searches themselves.

 

He hopes no one will pay attention to these next particular searches.

 

He pulls up the home screen, ignores the advertisement for the upcoming _The Princess Diaries #49_ (as yet untitled), hopes Jon won’t mind the new interests the computer clearly thinks he has, and takes a deep breath. Types in his search. Hits ENTER.

 

<SEARCHING FOR: ELIAS BOUCHARD. SEARCH COMPLETE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR THE RESULTS?>

 

He selects NO and proceeds to read through the file. Elias Bouchard, Head of Planetary Design Operations. Clearance Level: Indigo. _Huh_. He’d assumed Elias outranked Jon. There’s a somewhat older picture anchored in the corner of the profile, followed by various sections Martin can expand if he so chooses. He selects EMPLOYMENT STATUS & HISTORY, and begins to skim. There doesn’t seem anything remarkable here, at least nothing Martin can pick up on from his limited knowledge of how Stellar Firma works. It lists Elias’s examinations and scores, summaries of his interviews, notable accomplishments made during his career. Under PRIOR POSITIONS, there are a couple of sections blurred out, followed by Line Manager, which places him, Martin realizes, as having known Jon for quite the long time. He reports to someone called P. Lukas, though the dossier doesn’t specify who that is or what they might do, and Martin isn’t interested in following up, for the time being.

 

Further down, there’s a list of Citizen Employees under his jurisdiction. Jon’s name tops the list, though it’s greyed out, which Martin takes to have to do with the fact they’re at the same status? Theoretically? There are a few more familiar names on the list, including Timothy Stoker and Sasha James, and-- and his heart skips a beat when he sees it-- _Martin Blackwood_ , name in green, a single word in parentheses pulsing softly next to it: _(transferred.)_

 

He tries to jump to Blackwood’s profile, but the computer pulls up another error screen. He goes back to Elias’s page and tries again with Jon’s, to check if it’s a system-wide issue, but, sure enough, the screen happily brings up Jonathan Sims, Architect, Clearance Level: Indigo.

 

He tries Tim’s and gets Timothy Stoker, Planetary Designer, Clearance Level: Marigold.

 

He tries Sasha’s and gets… another error? It’s a different sort than Blackwood’s-- unlike his, the profile is technically showing, and the name and Clearance Level: Marigold, are readable on the page, but everything else, from ID picture, to ID number, to the entirety of employment history, prior accomplishments, fellow team members, is hopelessly scrambled.

 

There’s a message box blinking invitingly at him from the base of the screen. He sits back in his chair, feels it creak as he considers it: the message would come from a universal identity, so there was nothing to trace back to him; she might be able to explain Blackwood’s profile error as she does hers, or at least give him some insight into him; and besides, Jon was her friend, right? She might even keep a secret or two.

 

Pushing down the rising tide of nerves that tell him every reason why this is a bad idea and threaten to still his hand, he types out a message, reads it over to make sure he isn’t giving himself away, and, before he can stop himself, selects SEND.

 

<MESSAGE PENDING>

  
He signs the message _\- Jon_.


	15. the games we play

 

<SYSTEM STRUGGLING>

 

_“Damn it!”_

 

<ATTACK ON CENTRAL PROCESSOR DETECTED. STANDBY FOR SHIELDS.>

 

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me? All I did was hit the unit, you ridiculous excuse for a-- ugh!”

 

<TRIANGULATING ATTACK SOURCE>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<ATTACK SOURCE TRIANGULATED. SOURCE IS NOT PRESENT.>

 

“Oh. Then--?”

 

<IDENTIFYING SOURCE>

 

“Oh, no. Come _on_.”

 

<SOURCE IDENTIFIED. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO READ IT ALOUD?>

 

“Nope! I think I got this one. That _fuck--_ ”

 

<ANALYZING DEFENSE STRATEGIES>

 

<...>

 

<TESTING POTENTIAL OUTCOMES>

 

<...>

 

<...>

 

<CHANCE OF COUNTERATTACK SUCCESS: 85%>

 

<PREPARING COUNTERATTACK>

 

“Okay. Okay, good. Good.”

 

<DIVERTING POWER SUPPLY TO AUXILIARY POWER UNITS>

 

“Wait, what? How much power?”

 

<ANALYZING INPUT>

 

<...>

 

<ESTIMATED POWER DIVERSION NECESSARY AT ABOUT 70%>

 

“Uh, no. That’s not feas-- That won’t work. Cancel counterattack.>

 

 <ANTIVIRAL SHIELD LOADING>

 

<STANDBY>

 

“No! Cancel! Reverse-- Cancel-- Uh--  Cancel order? Cancel dispatch?... Uhh… _Shit,_ what was the phrase…?”

 

<STANDBY>

 

“No, no, no, no, nononono; this was _working!_ It has to _keep_ working!”

 

<PREPARING SHIELD FOR DISPATCH>

 

“Hey! J-- Computer! Some of those viruses are _ours!_ I need those viruses-- _he_ needs those viruses, and if you want him to pull through, which, I know you do, you’ll _stop_ diverting resources to areas that can’t possibly need it, not when he’s, well, like this, and-- and goddamnit, you can’t understand me, can you? Not when I need it the most?”

 

<ANALYZING INPUT>

 

“ _Fuck._ ”

 

<...>

 

“Fuck. You, and the Board, and, and-- hold on.”

 

<...>

 

“Hold _on_.”

 

<...>

 

<AWAITING FURTHER INSTRUCTION>

 

<...>

 

<ACCESSORY KEYBOARD 05181-0 ACTIVATED>

 

<MANUAL INPUT DETECTED>

 

“You… like games, yeah?”

 

<...>

 

<PROCESSING MANUAL INPUT>

 

<ANALYZING VERBAL INPUT>

 

<PROCESSING RESPONSE>

 

<SEARCHING DATABASE>

 

<...>

 

<YES.>

 

* * *

 

_Statement of J. Sims, Planetary Designer, Upper Level - Citizen Employee #12043133_

 

_Case #[REDACTED]_

 

I don’t know why we need to leave it running, Martin; if anything we’re better off without.

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 1: **CITIZEN EMPLOYEE #11273123 :: MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Jon, just-- trust me, okay? I want to have this on the record.”]

 

I thought you hated the record.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “No, _Tim_ hates the record. I mean, I don’t _like_ it, I’m not gonna lie, but, you know. It can be useful.”]

 

[COCKYNESS DETECTED. SECURITY ALERTED.]

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “You know, I’m surprised that’s all that thing has picked up on this far.”]

 

And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Never mind. Just sh, and listen.]

 

Alright; I just--

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “ _Sh.”_ ]

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Unable to identify.]

 

_Ah._

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “I love you, you know.”]

 

I’d- I’d rather assumed--

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “ _Jon._ Don’t make me regret what I’m about to say--”]

 

Which is?

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “That you are a very incorrigible man. And need to be getting far more sleep than you do. And that you could stand to be less loose with your tongue sometimes, especially where _socialization_ is concerned. And that if you keep skipping meals when I’m not around as much as you do, I might actually get a heart attack from the other side of the station. And--”]

 

Alright, alright, yes, _thank you_ , Martin.

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Identified as: Laughter]

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “I’m not done yet! And that alright, yes, sometimes you can take your curiosity a little too far, but can you really blame me if I can’t help but find it endearing? When you’re not exposing the personal information of strangers you’ve only just met, of course.”]

 

Martin--

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “You won’t dance in public, but that only makes it all the more special when we do, and call me unoriginal, but I can’t help but feel all warm when I’m holding you like this, all tucked up into my chin, even if you must insist on interrupting what I’m trying to make a very romantic speech--”]

 

Oh, yes, inspect a man’s every flaw with a fine-toothed comb; that’ll do it.

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “It worked in the 2000s.”]

 

Do you take all your romantic advice from the last millennium?

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “I suppose I’m just lucky you’re a very old-fashioned man.”]

 

Excuse me? I’m not-- _old-fashioned!_

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “You _hate_ the computers. And, forget those; I only really need one word to win this argument: manual, Jon. You do everything on manual.”]

 

I value privacy and--

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “And intimacy in your recordings, yes, I know.”]

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “ _Trust_ me, I know.”]

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Unable to identify.]

 

Remind me again why we need the recorder on?

 

[ **MARTIN BLACKWOOD:** “Mm, I can’t remember anymore. Shut it off?”]

 

Let’s.

 

_Statement ends._

 

“No.”

 

<FINAL ANSWER?>

 

“My final answer is no.”

 

<PLAYING NEXT STATEMENT>

 

_Statement of J. Sims, Planetary Designer, Upper Level - Citizen Employee #12043133_

 

_Case #[REDACTED]_

 

Right, right, right, right, right. Alright. This… ought to be good enough? Dear Board; I hope it’s enough. I haven’t wasted so much time on such trivial matters since-- Board, I don’t know when.

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Identified as: Sigh]

 

I very nearly said sod it all and asked Tim for help, but… I’d rather keep this to myself, for a little while longer. 

 

[HESITATION DETECTED. SECURITY ALERTED.]

 

Er-- I just, you know, well, I suppose… I’m nervous. This isn’t exactly how I saw my life panning out when I first started out on the Planetary Designer track, and certainly even just two weeks ago if you had asked me if I ever meant to go this far, I would have laughed right in your face. Probably would have laughed right in Martin’s face, if I’m being honest. 

 

I’m glad that’s not something else I’ll have to regret.

 

I know I just called this a trivial matter, but… I have a sinking feeling that I’m about to be proved wrong. Not that working with Martin, figuring this out hasn’t been… enlightening, but if I listen to myself for long enough, the thoughts flying around my brain like to settle on the point that, if we go through with this, life for us will never be able to return to as it was before. Best case scenario, it works, and… worst case, well. I don’t want to think about it. I hope that, no matter what, Martin and I will still be able to remain in touch, but…

 

Like I said, I don’t want to think about it. It’d be much easier to just drown myself back in my work and forget about tonight, but when I try, it’s… always there. On the edge of my mind. Lurking.

 

Tonight is important, and I don’t want to let Martin down.

 

I don’t think I could forgive myself.

 

_Statement ends._

 

“No.”

 

<FINAL ANSWER?>

 

“Go ahead and assume whatever I say right after you end the statement _is my final answer_.”

 

<ANALYZING INPUT>

 

<...>

 

<VERY WELL. PLAYING NEXT STATEMENT>

 

“Board, please let this work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for another short chapter, but this one just couldn't have played out any other way. hopefully, i'll be able to update again in the next few days, so you won't have to wait two weeks this time :)
> 
> also, this might seem unintelligible now, but i feel the need to make the very vague statement that from this point on, the statements in this work of fiction do not necessarily follow the same rules as the statements from jonny’s universe. I promise this will be extrapolated on later.


	16. Chapter 16

“You’re sure about this? Jon?”

 

Jon rubs his temples from where he’s seated cross-legged in his chair.

 

“ _ Yes, _ Martin; we’ve been over this. Unless you’ve got any misgivings yourself that you’ve yet to disclose, then this  _ is _ the best way to avoid calling attention to ourselves. You were right.”

 

“Yay me,” mutters Martin. A day or two ago, he’d have been glad for the compliment, but as the hours since had passed, he’d spent most of the time he was left alone (which was a  _ lot _ of time) thinking about Martin Blackwood, and Jon-- and remembering the expression on Jon’s face the first time he’d tried to turn on the holovision. He’d splayed his hand out then, though the room was dark as always, and tried to trace its shape with his only his eyes and the faint border glow of the screens for assistance, tried to see if there was any scar, any irregularity that would mark him as his  _ own _ self, as separate from Blackwood-- who he can barely think of as  _ Martin _ anymore-- and then feels the immediate guilt that comes with letting himself think he has any sort of claim on the name, clone as he is.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing, Jon.”

 

Jon squints at him (as he so often does these days,) but doesn’t press. He waves a hand towards the holovision console.

 

“Go on, then; roleplay it up.”

 

It’s Martin’s turn to squint, as he fiddles with the buttons.

 

“You could  _ not _ have strung those words together in a worse order if you tried.”

 

“What was wrong with the way I said it?”

 

“Nothing! Nothing.”

 

“No, really; we’re supposed to be truthful with each other now, Martin, so what was wrong?”

 

“ _ Nothing _ , Jon.” Martin rolls his eyes. “Board, is this what having a dad is like?”

 

“ _ Excuse me? _ Just how old do you think I am?”

 

“Er-- Older than me?” At Jon’s expression, he hastily adds, “Younger than Elias?” 

 

“Hmph.”

 

“To be fair, I’m not even a month old, so I’m not the best judge of age-- and besides, I only meant that you seem--”

 

He shuts his mouth, realizing with horror that he’d been about to say  _ out of touch _ .

 

“Seem what, exactly?”

 

Martin decides to take the brave way out to this question, and presses the smiley-face-labeled black button that starts up the holovision program.

 

<ROLEPLAY HOLOVISION ACTIVATED>

 

“Oh, very well done,” says Jon, dry enough to scare off even the most prolific erotic novelist. “Wonderful escape.”

 

“Let’s just get on with it?”

 

“Oh, absolutely, Mr Bl--” He breaks off immediately. ”Er, Martin.”

 

Martin’s heart sinks.

 

“Er,” says Jon, decently abashed, “Hand me those cases, will you?”

 

“Yeah. Sure. Here.”

 

The easy camaraderie of only a few seconds ago is gone, vanished in an instant, and as Martin reaches for the towering stack of statements the two of them have been ignoring over the past few days, he asks himself again why he keeps encouraging himself, as if anything in the range of what he’s imagining could work out-- as if!

 

His hand hits the pile of papers-- and promptly passes through it. He’s ashamed to say he yelps, and draws his hand back with a ferocity that suggests someone’s lit it on fire. Somewhere to his right, Jon lets out a chuckle that manages to be both amused and apologetic.

 

“You’ve got to concentrate,” he explains, and scoots his chair closer to where Martin is standing, still a little bit in shock. “The default holovision setting is just an exact replica of the consultation room, which in retrospect was a terrible idea on our part, but seemed nice in practice.”

 

Martin ignores the part of his brain that picks up and focuses in on the word  _ our _ and chooses instead to try and wrap his head around the latest concept Jon’s thrown at him.

 

“And concentrating helps… how?”

 

“It’s coded to recognize neural electrical activity,” Jon says, as matter-of-fact as if he’s asking Martin’s tea order. “The harder you focus on an object, the more physical it becomes in this space. Saves a lot of energy and time and money from not having to keep all the molecules tuned to proximity, apparently.”

 

“Sounds complicated.”

 

“Wasting your mental energy and time?” Jon says, a warmth to his voice that only comes out, Martin knows, when he’s thinking of someone else. “That’s what he said, too.”

 

_ There it is _ . 

 

It does feel a little bit  _ wrong _ , in Martin’s opinion, for Jon to be referencing Blackwood so openly, so.. flippantly.

 

“So… focusing. Gotcha.”

 

He thinks about the statement, the second one from the top, pulsing, now that he’s looking for it, with a vague glow that matches the blue of all the other accents in the room. He thinks about how much he wants to hold it in his hand, how pleasant the distraction of work might be right about now, considers, for a brief moment, that it might not work, because the system somehow knows they’re planning something, under its veil-- has a moment of panic when he considers the implications of this mind-reading system, and of  _ course _ there was going to be something wrong with his idea-- and then gives another little start when his fingers miss the paper again.

 

Jon’s hand closes around his arm, and Martin tries to shake it off. Jon just tightens his grip.

 

“Focus,” he says, and, oh, he’s much closer than he’d thought; his voice is like the honey Martin catches a hint of around once a week in his tea, and he finds himself relaxing into it against all his better judgement.

 

“I’m focusing,” he says lightly, and reaches for the paper a third time. This time, his fingers close around the thin sheet, and he pulls it to him, scanning the report as he turns to sit down.

 

He finds himself face-to-face (well, slightly-taller-face-to-the-air-above-Jon’s-face) with Jon, whose arm is still latched loosely onto Martin’s.

 

“You can let go now,” he points out.

 

“Right,” says Jon, and shifts his hand up to squeeze his shoulder before dropping it to his side and settling back into his own chair, clothes a little rumpled from where he’d been pressed against Martin (which:  _ why? _ )

 

Martin hopes he isn’t as red as he feels.

 

“Pretend to read the report,” Jon says, voice a little lower than usual.

 

“...Okay?”

 

It takes a few more seconds for Martin to realize that Jon had meant  _ out loud, _ reiterated by the vaguely amused lift of his eyebrows when Martin looks up from the page.

 

“Oh,” he says. “Right.”

 

Clearing his throat, he begins to read. 

 

“Reconstruction report for Planet 617892; designs by Citizen Employee J. Tyrell, ID #06173097; construction by Build Team 12.”

 

The report itself seems pretty standard as far as failed planets go; with the exception of a couple of designs fated for spectacular disaster, most planets go wrong because of trivial oversights in the build process. Rarely has a planet failed due to errors or misjudgement on the designer’s part, and, as Martin finds as he recounts the valve failures that somehow managed to affect every single artificial waterway and sink on Planet 617892, this particular case is no different.

 

As he continues to read over the final disastrous specs, he slowly becomes aware of Jon watching him intently, gaze beginning to burn into him even after he tries to keep his head down and read. Eventually, the steady, unblinking gaze begins to get to him, and he places the paper down with no little annoyance.

 

“What is it?”

 

Jon tilts his head.

 

“Speak a little louder.”

 

Martin repeats the question, at the volume requested.

 

“Add a little draftiness to your voice-- imagine you’re constantly exhausted, and don’t get a weekend off for another three weeks.”

 

“I get weekends off?”

 

“Martin.”

 

Martin complies, reading off the last few lines of the report. When he’s finished, and looks back up at Jon, there’s a gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been quite as bright before. He nods towards the stack of unsolved reconstruction reports.

 

“Right, now: read another one, in that same voice, and…” He breaks off, looking thoughtful. “Shift your weight a little bit more to the left-- no, my left. Yes. Perfect. And lean in a little closer towards me-- pretend this next report is the most interesting thing you’ve ever read, and that you just can’t wait to share its contents with me.”

 

Martin raises an eyebrow at that, but Jon just laughs, properly, out loud, and the sound startles Martin right into following his directions. Focusing on another report near the middle of the stack-- he can feel Jon’s eyes fixed on him-- he picks it out and starts to read. 

 

By the time he’s halfway through the introduction, Jon is smiling; when he’s about a quarter of the way through the initial assessment, Jon claps his hands loudly enough to startle Martin out of his performance.

 

“Board, Martin-- I think this might actually work.”

 

A rush of warmth floods Martin’s chest; it’s one thing for him to follow Jon’s instructions, quite another to be told he’s doing it  _ well _ . And, of course, it means they’re one step closer to hoodwinking the entirety of Stellar Firma-- that he’s one step closer to learning more about his own options. He stares at Jon a little more fondly than he’d normally allow himself, the screens floating in his line of sight giving off the familiar blue glow he’s come to associate with Jon’s company.

 

It’s during this prolonged moment-- this wonderful, long moment that Martin finds he wouldn’t mind stretching out and living in forever, or at least for a few hours in the dark-- that one of the said screens lights up with an alert-- 

 

<ONE NEW MESSAGE>

 

S. James  
Hey, Jon.

 

It takes a moment for Martin to process the implications, and he’s this close to going “ _ Oh, look, Jon; you’ve got a message!” _ before he stops himself with what ends up coming out as a half-wheeze half-gasp. Jon’s eyebrows melt downwards and materialize into concern, and he’s already half opening his mouth to ask something Martin desperately doesn’t want to answer, so Martin does the only thing he can think of.

 

Pushing himself up from his seat, he half steps, half  _ runs _ to the holovision console and frantically jabs at what he hopes is the OFF button. In a fraction of a fraction of a second, the room… looks exactly the same, albeit with the reminder that the roleplay holovision is now ended.

 

“I’m tired,” he tries, and Jon just  _ stares _ at him.

 

“I’m sorry, Jon. I-- just need some sleep. Or maybe some time in the dark; I think these lights are really getting to me.”

 

Jon half-rises from his chair, eyes softening into concern. “Do you need me to call down a-- doctor, or repairman, or-- whoever it is that can help you? Or-- can I do anything?”

 

The worry in his tone is evident, and Martin realizes just a little too late that Jon probably knew Blackwood as he was  _ dying _ .

 

“I’m not dying, Jon,” he offers, but the near-imperceptible shift in Jon’s face tells him this was the wrong thing to say. “I just… need some time alone, really. This was… nice.”

 

“Okay,” Jon says slowly. “Alright. But-- If you need anything--”

 

“I’ll be  _ fine _ ,” Martin insists.

 

“ _ If _ you need anything,” Jon says, overriding him, the faintest bit of annoyance creeping into his tone, “You can use the computer to alert me. Here, do you want me to show you how--?”

 

“No!” 

 

Jon freezes in place. When he turns back to Martin, his face is overwritten with disappointment and a bit of hurt.

 

“I, I can figure it out, Jon.” He almost adds  _ I’m not a child, _ but takes another look at Jon’s face and decides to bite it back.

 

When Jon eventually recovers his bearings and leaves, Martin watches him go with a healthy amount of guilt twinging in his gut.

 

_ It’s for the best, _ he reminds himself, glancing furtively once more at the door before settling down in front of the computer.

 

He opens the now-numerous messages blinking up on the screen.

 

S. James  
Hey, Jon.  
S. James  
Long time, no see. I’m honestly a bit surprised to hear from you, but we all take what we can get, I suppose. Nice to know you’re not intending to be a stranger forever.  
S. James  
I am curious as to why you’re asking after Martin again after all this time, though. Was the first exposé not enough for you? When did he break up with you? That’s why you’re asking, right? Anyways, I have what you asked for. I’m sending it over in the next message.

 

Martin scans the rest of the messages, eyes widening slightly with every consecutive piece of new information. When he’s done, he looks back at the doorway, sighs when it’s empty, starts to get out of his seat, then sits back down. His fingers tap nervously against the workspace. Leaning forward, he types out a response, erases it, types out another, slightly more succinct version of the previous, deletes that, too, then decides upon a simple.

Thanks.

He fiddles with his thumbs for a few more seconds, wavering on the edge of a decision, then takes the keyboard back in hand and quickly types out something else and sends it before he can think any better against it.

One more thing...


	17. Chapter 17

Martin wakes to the sound of soft music. It’s light, and airy, and even before he’s fully alert, his pulse seems to recognize it, twitching to the three-count beat in a rhythm that makes him want to get up and  _ sway. _

 

_ It’s beautiful, _ he thinks, still in a half-groggy state, as the orchestra soars.

 

“It is.” 

 

Jon’s voice floats across the room, and Martin bolts upright in his chair, the arm digging into his side along with the dawning realization that he’d voiced his thought aloud. A blush suffuses across his face.

 

“Sorry to wake you,” Jon says, a note of apology creeping into his voice, “but I had a thought, and I estimate we’ll need the better part of the next few days in order to realize it.”

 

Martin follows his line of sight to the holovision console, notes the new shininess of the smiley-face button and the strange faint wavering of the screens when he looks too hard at them, and realizes they must be in the virtual roleplay space. Promptly after he has this thought, the chair disappears from under him, no longer made solid by the effort of his thoughts, and he falls the foot and a half to the floor with a yell.

 

When he looks up, Jon is doing his utmost best to hold back a laugh, and, after a brief moment to recover himself, extends an arm to help him up to standing. Martin takes the arm, slightly begrudgingly, and hauls himself back up to his feet, the image of the not-quite-there chair shimmering slightly as his body passes through it. 

 

It’s only when he’s fully upright that he realizes just how close he and Jon are; Jon’s face is barely half a foot from his, and he still hasn’t let go of his hands. There’s a notably pregnant pause where neither of them move, Martin himself barely daring to breathe, and over it all, the smooth tones of a solo flute butter the air with a certain anticipation that he can’t quite bring himself to understand. Jon’s eyes are fixed on something just over his left shoulder, or maybe  _ on _ it; he’s not quite sure, but his fingers are interlaced with his just tightly enough that Martin doesn’t want to bring himself to make a move towards letting go, doesn’t want to do anything to spoil the moment (one of increasingly many such moments, but still--)

 

Then Jon steps back, and drops his hands, and Martin turns slightly away to squash down his disappointment, and Jon mutters something about how they’d better get started, and Martin takes the time to make a quick check to ensure the computer’s messaging systems are on  _ do not disturb, _ and in doing so manages to completely miss whatever Jon had moved away to fix as part of his “setup,” leading to his brain screeching to a full-blown stop when he turns around to see Jon once again with his arm extended, beckoning in his direction.

 

It isn’t just the sight of Jon standing there with an open warmth in his eyes that has him gaping like a fish out of water, though; it’s the sight of the scenery around him. Somehow, in the brief moments it had taken Martin to disable the notifications system, Jon had transformed the virtual office into something much grander, a virtual space of exquisite proportions and taste, if the degree of polishedness of the floor speaks to any of that. 

 

There are cascading banisters, and spiraling stairs dotting the edges and corners of the room, and, really, “room” doesn’t do the place justice. It’s a space larger than anything Martin could have ever  _ imagined, _ and his tiny little world of the consultation office and associated tubing is more than laughable in comparison. You could probably fit it all into just a few squares of tiling here, he thinks, surveying the gilded edging that runs along the walls. 

 

It is, in short, far too much for the likes of Martin-7. The longer he stands there, eyes widened, to drink it all in, the greater the sheer dizziness of its size intensifies. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a slight movement from Jon, as if priming himself to step in if Martin ends up needing assistance with staying upright once again.

 

Martin scolds himself to stay stable. He can’t have Jon rushing out to catch him, after all. That would almost definitely set off more than a few flags inside the simulated environment, right?

 

The more he tries not to envision it, the harder it gets to ignore the image. He blames the late-night romantic comedies the computer insists on suggesting to him.

 

“What is this place?” he says instead, to clear his head. His gaze drags over the walls, sliding slowly up to the grand ceiling, arched, with domed cupolas peaking off every so often and sweeping bits of architecture he doesn’t even have names for. All of it is lighted and airy makes Martin feel like he’s floating if he stares at it for too long. Board, it’s gorgeous.

 

“The grand ballroom,” Jon says, stepping over to him. His voice echoes a bit more as he approaches the center. “Or, well, the best approximation of it that I could put together on moment’s notice.”

 

“You mean it’s  _ more _ than this?”

 

There’s a definite note of amusement in Jon’s voice when he responds. 

 

“ _ Much _ more. It’s far too intricate for any system like this to bother capturing, which is half the reason for its galactic fame.”

 

“...Right,” Martin says, weakly. “And just to be clear, we need it for…?”

 

“Practice. This is, after all, where the Intergalactic Ball will be held; we can’t have you overcome with its beauty like this when you walk in.” He pauses. “Though, of course, you might try and blend in with the extra-corporate guests if that  _ does _ become the case.”

 

“Would  _ he _ have?”

 

Jon’s expression shifts to one of contemplation.

 

“He did the first time, and honestly, I don’t think anyone can ever  _ really _ escape it, but he’d have hidden it as well as most if he’d been going this year, I think. At least-- outwardly.”

 

“Okay, well, then that’s what I’ll do,” Martin says promptly.

 

“If you’re sure.”

 

_ Anything he did, I can do, _ Martin thinks, with a certain unprompted viciousness, but he keeps the thought to himself.

 

Instead, he asks about the music.

 

“That brings me to what I’d been hoping to begin on today,” Jon says. “It  _ is _ a ball, after all. And I have it on--” he breaks off-- “ _ good _ authority that you can’t dance.”

 

“Thanks,” mutters Martin. “Check in on the after-hours recordings, do you?”

 

Jon waves a hand to brush him off. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Martin; I’ve been there myself.”

 

This lights up something in the back of Martin’s brain that had been nagging at him. He points an accusing finger Jon’s way.

 

“Hold on, you said you can’t dance either!”

 

“When--”

 

“When we were in the office that one night-- you’d been all dressed up, and it was one of the first moments you actually bothered to  _ talk  _ to me properly--”

 

“Knowing what you know now, I’m sure you can understand that I’d been-- compromised,” Jon says, two dull spots of red beginning to bloom on his cheeks. 

 

Martin lets out a short huff of a laugh.

 

“Mhm. I’ll just let Elias know that at the next evaluation, then: ‘Oh, Elias, it turns out Jon says he wasn’t  _ actually _ ignoring me; he was just--’ ”

 

“ _ Anyways _ ,” Jon says, turning away and stepping over to an invisible patch of air where the console supposedly must be. “I thought-- I might teach you.”

 

This cuts Martin’s train of thought short  _ immediately _ . 

 

“To dance?”

 

“Unless you’d prefer Elias’s guiding hand, then yes.”

 

Martin shudders. “Don’t bring him into this.” And then, realizing what he’s said: “I mean-- because we’re trying to keep this secret, and all?”

 

Jon glances at him over his shoulder, clearly eyeing him with one of those inscrutable emotions he seems to have so often.

 

“Of course,” he says, dryly, and finishes fiddling with what really does look rather ridiculous considering it’s invisible, Martin thinks. As soon as he releases his hands, the music shifts subtly, increasing in volume and slowing. The pattern of three stands out a bit more obviously against the overarching melody than it had before, and Martin finds himself tapping his fingers on his jumpsuit to the rhythm. 

 

“These balls tend to mix together centuries of Earthen classical styles of dancing,” Jon says, moving back towards Martin. He lifts his arms, as if ready to conduct an orchestra, then drops them to his sides, as if extremely confused when nothing happens. He coughs.

 

“I thought we’d start with a waltz-- it’s relatively simple.”

 

Martin blinks. “Okay.”

 

_ Waltz _ is such a strange word, he reflects. It buzzes in his mouth a bit; he thinks he likes that. Waltz. Wal-tz.  _ Tz. Tzzzzzzzzzzzzz. _ Waltzz. Waltz.

 

Jon, for some reason, seems a bit flustered compared to how he’d been just moments earlier. He’s standing tall, which means he’s trying to put up a front, but it’s a bit hard to take it at face value when all of a sudden he’s no longer looking Martin in the eye, or anywhere near the face, really, and he’s wringing his hands at the wrists in front of him.

 

“Right, well-- Right. Right, so-- I think-- Well. Martin would-- I mean,  _ you’re _ Martin, but-- when we’d-- He’d--” He breaks off entirely, stops. Takes a deep breath. Martin waits.

 

“What I’m trying to say is-- You’re taller, so I think it would be better if you lead.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“I’ll, I’ll show you,” Jon says, and he reaches for Martin’s arm.

 

“Uh. Jon?”

 

“Just let me.” He steps closer, and manuevers Martin’s right hand to his hip, then, as quickly as if he’d burned him, slides it up to his upper back. “Like this, and…” He trails off, sounding quite unsure, and in Martin’s personal opinion it might be better for the both of them if he resolves to look up  _ waltzing _ on the computer once Jon’s left.

 

Jon places his left hand on Martin’s shoulder, then lets it drop a few inches to his upper arm. He takes his left hand in his right, and his thumb drags slightly across his palm as he reconfigures them so that they’re clasping, arms held out, extended nearly all the way, a bend still present in both of their elbows. Martin tracks the angle of Jon’s arm-- stiff, precise-- and does his best to match it.

Jon steps in closer, closer, closer and Martin feels his breath hitch in spite of himself. Jon doesn’t seem to notice, making a noise of approval and finally looking back up at Martin.

 

“This ought to be good enough,” he says and tilts his head in a way that makes Martin’s mouth grow dry.

 

_ No, _ he scolds himself. Dancing with Jon is  _ not _ his territory, and he’d do best to remember that. This is just.. for educational purposes.

 

There are other things he could claim for educational purposes, he does not let himself point out.

 

This crisis of self keeps him from realizing that Jon had been listening for a particular beat to the music, and so when he shifts their combined weight towards him, Martin nearly doesn’t catch it in time to stop him from causing the both of them to go crashing down to the floor.

 

“Er--” he says-- “Jon, I-- what am I supposed to do now, exactly?”

 

In response, Jon leans back again. Martin isn’t even sure if he’s realized he’s doing it. 

 

“Step forward,” he says, indicating with his foot. “Then across, then together. Think of it as stepping into my space, which I am quickly vacating. Then I come into yours. There are only three steps in a waltz, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

 

He releases his hands and demonstrates. Martin misses his warmth almost immediately.

 

“Like this, and then across, like this, and then-- together. Then the same, but backwards. It’s really not too difficult.”

 

Martin thinks he would like to kiss him.

 

This thought is interrupted by Jon coming back, again closer, closer,  _ too close _ . This time, when Jon cocks his head and then begins, Martin is able to follow his steps, and he thinks he understands why it’s called a  _ lead _ . He is also very sure he is not the one doing it.

 

The steps repeat, over and over again, the two of them marking out their own little box on the floor, and Martin begins to think he can get used to this. Jon’s grip on his arm is firm but not tight, and though he’s pretending to stare somewhere off to the left over his shoulder, Martin catches him sneaking glances at him when he thinks he’s not looking. They’re not for him, the glances, he knows, but they have a warming effect all the same. At some point, he’s not sure exactly when, the beginnings of a smile creeps onto the edges of Jon’s mouth. 

 

Martin’s just caught him out on it when Jon stops them, and says something about adding in turning. Martin shrugs; what is he supposed to say, no?

 

It’s a good choice, he decides, once Jon begins to lead him around the large, sweeping hall. The sweeping rotations press them together; the momentum turning their dance into their own little two-person bubble, and a silly elation bubbles up through Martin’s chest the longer they keep dancing. 

 

“You try,” Jon says, at some point, and eases off the pressure keeping them going. Martin looks at him, a small anxiety climbing out of his chest, but Jon just smiles, warm and encouraging, entirely out of line with his typical character, and Martin presses forward, bolstered by a new, strange confidence.

 

The walls melt away; the ceilings seem to shrink down until there’s only one dome left, shining a sole, multicoloured spotlight upon them. Martin doesn’t know if it’s just his mind or the actual virtual environment. He doesn’t stop to ask. Every stumble seems rehearsed, every small apology torn away by the deafening loudness of the dark creeping in at the edges. There is haven in this small space they’re caught in; he feels it in the way they keep turning and the silence that decorates the background.

 

Jon is warm, in his arms, and his face is far too close to his own to be allowed, but regulation is the last thing on either of their minds as they swirl. His lips are curved upwards and his eyes half-closed, and once Martin notices it takes everything he has to tear his eyes away. He thinks he can feel Jon’s breathing, and he thinks his heart might be beating loud enough for him to hear it-- or maybe he’s just hearing everything, and everything is Jon’s heart because right now Jon is everything.

 

It’s perfect.  _ Too  _ perfect.

 

Which is why when Jon stops, and looks up at him, and Martin’s  _ heart _ stops and he lets go-- it’s enough to drop whatever gauzy veil had fallen over them.

 

They’re in the room-- the ballroom, which is in the consultation room, and really, Martin’s not sure if they ever left at all; he thinks he knows, with dawning horror, what’s just happened-- and Jon is looking up at him, yes, but not in the way he’d been just moments prior; there is concern written all over his face, but he’s clearly holding back from saying anything.

 

“Maybe we should finish for today,” Jon says, stepping back.

 

“Oh,” whispers Martin, and it feels like the syllable is being torn from his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while, so i figured you wouldn't mind a longer chapter than usual :)  
> i believe this is a somewhat anticipated chapter, though it ended up being.... very different to what i'd envisioned. it's okay, though. they'll dance properly soon enough!


	18. god project

<STATEMENT COMMENCING>

 

_ Statement of J. Sims, Architect - Citizen Employee #12043133 _

 

_ Case #[REDACTED] _

 

[OUTSIDE SOURCE DETECTED :: SOURCE 1:  **CITIZEN EMPLOYEE #09183107 :: ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “Hello, Jon.”]

 

Elias.

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “And what brings you to my office today?”]

 

The-- clone.

 

[ANGER DETECTED. SECURITY ALERTED.]

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “What about it? Really, Jon, we’ve been over this, what, three times now? Surely you must have grasped the turnover process by this point.”]

 

Yes, well, maybe I might have, if you hadn’t left me  _ this _ .

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Identified as: Paper rustling.]

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “Paper records? How quaint.”]

 

This is a copy of a message from  _ you _ . I think we both know what it says.

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “I sent that this morning, yes. It’s a standard clone customization form, Jonathan; you’ve been going through assistants so fast, I thought it might help to be able to personalize them to your needs.”]

 

A clone--  _ customization _ form? For  _ me? _ When-- When we both know  _ exactly _ what my, my  _ clone _ is supposed to represent?

 

[BOREDOM DETECTED. SECURITY ALERTED.]

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “I really don’t see an issue.”]

 

Fine. You want me to spell it out? You and your excuse for a company killed the m-- someone I cared about very much. Then, you presented me with a successive series of clone assistants specifically designed to look exactly like that person. Now, you’re so very kindly giving me the option to go in and mess with that design’s-- that  _ person’s _ \-- settings? I can’t deny I’ve learned quite an awful lot about this ridiculous front of a company, but this is a new low, even for you.

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “Well. Board, Jon; if I’d known you were going to get so worked up about this, I wouldn’t have offered the option at all.”]

 

That’s a lie and you know it. You  _ killed _ him--

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** Really? That’s news to me. The records all certainly seem to indicate that Martin Blackwood-- it  _ was _ Mr Blackwood you were referring to, I assume?-- is perfectly well and alive, and enjoying a particularly comfortable transfer to the intergalactic relations committee. Much more befitting a man of his position and birth, I’m sure you’ll agree.]

 

_ Bullshit _ .

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “Language, Jonathan.”]

 

I was there-- I saw him! More than that, I’m in the system now, no thanks to you. I can  _ feel _ him missing.

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “Maybe so. Or maybe he’s simply off-world. Liaisons often travel for extended periods of time.”]

 

Cut the crap, Elias.

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “Alright. Let’s say I humor you and agree that Mr Blackwood  _ is _ dead. I’m certainly not going to waste my time dwelling on the fact-- he was hardly a model employee during his little stint in Planetary Design. I hate to be the one to break it to you, Jonathan, but  _ no one cares. _ And even if they did, there’s nothing you can prove.”]

 

[TURMOIL DETECTED. SECURITY ALERTED.]

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “Now, if all of this is over the customization form, let me be the first to assure you that you don’t have to use it. I’m sure Martin-5 will do just as fine as the four before him without any additional… adjustments.”]

 

...But.

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “But what?”]

 

You wouldn’t have given me the form if there wasn’t a “but.”

 

[SIGH DETECTED. SECURITY ALERTED.]

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “I do think it might be… good for you.”]

 

What, to strip away even more of Martin from these-- these imitations! Turn them into even more of hollow shells?

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “Quite frankly, yes.”]

 

_ Board. _

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “I’m afraid you’ll find they’ll likely be on my side on this particular matter. You’re too attached. Those clones are  _ clones _ , not people. You’d do well to learn the difference.]

 

Then why give me them in the shape of Martin at all? Why waste the time, go to all that effort, when you could much more easily gift me something standard?

 

[ **ELIAS BOUCHARD:** “Some lessons need to be learned the hard way.”]

 

_ Statement ends.   _

 

<NEXT SELECTION (CONTINUOUS)>

 

_ Statement of J. Sims, Architect - Citizen Employee #12043133 _

 

So you’re to be the new one, hm? The new Martin.

 

[GURGLING DETECTED. CHECKING TONES.]

 

[CLONE VAT GURGLING DEEMED WITHIN ACCEPTABLE LEVELS.]

 

Hm. 

 

How does it feel, being made? Does it hurt?

 

[GURGLING DETECTED. CHECKING TONES.]

 

[CLONE VAT GURGLING DEEMED WITHIN ACCEPTABLE LEVELS.]

 

I hope not. For your sake.

 

I wonder, can you feel?

 

[DO NOT TAP ON THE CLONE VAT GLASS, ARCHITECT.]

 

Yes, yes, alright.

 

So.

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Identified as: Paper rustling.]

 

I have the instructions for customization. Of clones-- of you. I… Elias says I ought to make some changes. Start distancing myself from, well… everything. 

 

Maybe he’s right.

 

[GURGLING DETECTED. CHECKING TONES.]

 

[CLONE VAT GURGLING DEEMED WITHIN ACCEPTABLE LEVELS.]

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Identified as: Sigh]

 

But I don’t know if I buy it? If they really wanted me to forget.. you know… then they wouldn’t rub it all in my face by giving me  _ you _ . 

 

Sorry-- I didn’t mean--? Well, you probably won’t remember any of this, but… it’s not your fault? I don’t know how long you’ll last, this time around, but… I just thought I ought to let you know. 

 

…

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED: Identified as: Extended sigh]

 

I wrote down some potential changes. Small things, really. I don’t think you’ll miss them? If anything,  _ I’ll _ be the one that notices their absence.

 

[HESITATION DETECTED. SECURITY ALERTED.]

 

[DO NOT TOUCH THE CLONE VAT, ARCHITECT.]

 

[ARCHITECT DO NOT TOUCH THE CLONE VAT.]

 

[ARCHITECT--]

 

Oh, shut up. 

 

Initiating customization sequence; validation code M-one-five-S-U. 

 

[VALIDATION CODE ACCEPTED]

 

[HEART RATE ABOVE NORMAL PARAMETERS. SECURITY ALERTED.]

 

Login System JSI89-- Admin.

 

[LOGGED IN TO SYSTEM JSI89. WELCOME, ARCHITECT.]

 

Access clone controls.

 

[CLONE CONTROLS ARE OVERSEEN BY PERSONNEL REGULATOR. IF YOU HAVE AN OVERRIDE CODE, PLEASE PRESENT IT NOW.]

 

I’m the  _ Architect _ .

 

[CLONE CONTROLS ARE OVERSEEN BY PERSONNEL REGULATOR. IF YOU HAVE AN OVERRIDE CODE, PLEASE PRESENT IT NOW.]

 

Fine. Fine. Override code E-J-B-one-C-W.

 

[WELCOME TO CLONE CONTROLS. PLEASE SELECT A--]

 

Access custody profile: Jonathan Sims.

 

[ACCESSING CLONE CUSTODY PROFILE FOR JONATHAN SIMS.]

 

Access clone configuration: Martin Line

 

[ACCESSING CLONE CONFIGURATION PROFILE FOR LINE: MARTIN.]

 

Discontinue line.

 

[ERROR: CLEARANCE UNAUTHORIZED TO DISCONTINUE MODEL]

 

Of course not. Still, was worth a try. Access physical features board.

 

[ERROR: CLEARANCE UNAUTHORIZED TO ACCESS PHYSICAL CONFIGURATION]

 

[GURGLING DETECTED. CHECKING TONES.]

 

[CLONE VAT GURGLING DEEMED WITHIN ACCEPTABLE LEVELS.]

 

[NON-LINGUAL SOUND DETECTED. Identified as: Sigh]

 

Right.

 

[DISCOMFORT DETECTED. SECURITY ALERTED.]

 

What was even the point, Elias?

 

…

 

Access Skills and Contributions.

 

[ACCESSING SKILLS AND CONTRIBUTIONS CONFIGURATION]

 

Delete all of them. Well-- no. I still want him to be able to  _ function _ . Just-- anything personal. Anything  _ meaningful _ . Get rid of it.

 

[I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE QUERY.]

 

Yes. We do.

 

[IF YOU’RE SURE.]

 

I am.

 

[VERY WELL.]

 

[REMOVING HOT DRINKS PACKAGE]

 

[REMOVING IDLING PACKAGE]

 

[REMOVING CLASSICAL BALLROOM DANCING PACKAGE]

 

[REMOVING INSTRUMENTATION (MUSICAL) PACKAGE]

 

[REMOVING INSTRUMENTATION (WEATHER) PACKAGE]

 

[REMOVING POP CULTURE PACKAGE]

 

[REMOVING ENTITY ATTUNEMENT]

 

[REMOVING JACK-OF-ALL-TRADES PACKAGE]

 

[RELOADING PERSONALITY MATRIX]

 

[CHANGES SAVED. ALL FURTHER ITERATIONS OF LINE: MARTIN WILL ADHERE TO NEW SETTINGS UNLESS MODIFIED.]

 

[SADNESS DETECTED. SECURITY ALERTED.]

 

_ Statement ends.  _

 

“Oh,  _ Jon. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> (:
> 
> @justasmalltownai


End file.
